This time last year I was coming to the end of a seven year stint of living in Barcelona, Spain. It is a city where the sun never ceases to shine. Now as I sit looking out of the window here in Portland I can feel winter’s cold tendrils drilling further and further into my bones. Gone are the days of drinking Spanish coffee on shady boulevards whilst munching on a tasty tapas of deep fried baby squid. Gone are the days of almost permanent arousal as I sit on the packed beaches watching hordes of thin, tanned women run around in nothing but a G-String. Coffee houses here have long packed away their outdoor furniture and the Pacific Coast lies 100 miles west and is a cold and desolate place. Before leaving the house I must remember to add two extra layers of clothing, or risk mild hypothermia as I walk to the car. I must sit and blow on my aching fingers after scraping away the morning frost with a clothing label (I really must by a proper scraper, and some gloves!). And yet, do I miss all of that sunshine…? Not really. I loved living in Barcelona while I was there, driving around on my scooter in nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, ogling the plethora of scantly clad women that filled the streets and sleeping naked in a star position every night just to reduce my levels of sweat, but after seven years of it I was ready for something new.

As I’ve mentioned before, Oregon is a place of immense natural beauty, something I was very pleased to experience “at ground level” this past weekend, which I spent in the Great Outdoors, in a very basic, one room log cabin. I have to say I was a little apprehensive on Friday evening on the way out to the state park where our cabin was situated. I’ve never been camping in late November before, much less in an unfamiliar place, and really didn’t know what to expect. I had called ahead to find out what amenities were available at our temporary abode and had gotten the answer of “very little”. In preparation then, I spent most of Friday afternoon preparing for the worst. Working from the basic principals of survival, namely food, shelter and warmth, I packed the car accordingly. The day previous I had been to Next Adventure, a remarkable store specializing in second hand outdoor gear, where I had procured an arctic sleeping bag, 2 camping chairs, an LCD headlight, a “gourmet chef” gas cooking stove, a couple of gas canisters, another torch, and a plastic plate, all for the very reasonable price of $85. Once I had loaded the car with all of this, a massive box of food supplies and every single piece of thermal underwear I could find, I felt ready enough for survival at the very least. As I headed out, only a few doubts remained:

Did the second hand gas cooker I had bought even work? (I hadn’t bothered to test it…). Was there going to be any heating in the log cabin, or was I expected to bring my own heater? (I didn’t have one…). Was anyone else mad enough to go rustic camping at this time of year, or would we be alone in the middle of nowhere?

Of course, I’ve always felt that leaving a few things unknown adds to the general feeling of adventure, so I said nothing to my wife, her brother and my daughter who were all relying on me, and carried on with a pantomime like air of self-assuredness.

The sun had bidden us farewell long before we arrived at the park, despite it being only six o’clock in the evening. The drive from the freeway had been short, but with every mile the street lights had gotten further and further apart until finally disappearing altogether. The moon had also decided that she was staying in with a cup of cocoa and a nice book that evening and so the only illumination available was that of our own headlights and the mass of stars twinkling in the sky above. As we drove onto the park, my wife asked where we were supposed to get the key for the cabin. I had no idea, but answered vaguely about it being “somewhere over there” just to waylay her fears. We drove on for sometime down a darkened road, passing booth after booth, each ominously displaying a sign which read “Closed”. Onward we went, into the darkness ahead. Finally, just as tensions were starting to increase we saw yet another booth, and more importantly, signs of life! An RV trailer with a light on and a couple walking across the road before us. I called out to them for help, trying not to sound too much like a lost first timer with no idea what was going on. They kindly directed us to the park host who was held up in a RV trailer a little further down the track.

A short while later, after obtaining the cabin key and purchasing some logs from Jim and Gloria (our polite, if slightly reserved park hosts) we arrived at the cabin. I was glad to see that there was indeed a heater inside, which I turned on immediately (the temperature outside was flirting with the concept of below freezing). Gloria had also informed me that the park was pretty busy that weekend, and that we would not be the only campers there. That said, the majority seemed to be comfortably ensconced in their enormous Recreational Vehicles, watching satellite TV on what I imaged to be flat screen TV’s of a disproportionate size. I’ve always loved the idea of living on the road in a reasonable size van and it seems that many American retirees share my idyllic dream, although they have definitely taken it to new heights. Most of the RV’s on the site were the size of a small bungalow. They had extendable sides and roofs and satellite TV aerials, making each one seem like a command center for some kind of nefarious military installation. Each trailer was accompanied by a vehicle which would not have looked out of place on a Monster Truck event. When started up these trucks gave out an almighty roar which, had they sounded in unison, would have been enough to convince me that the apocalypse had started. I asked one of the owners what kind of mileage he got from his truck with and without the trailer. 16 miles per gallon without and 12 with, came his rather sheepish reply. This meant that $1 would take him 3 miles, which in American terms is enough to go to the local store to buy a newspaper. In the age of ever increasing gas prices, it struck me that the days of the luxurious nomadic retiree are most certainly numbered.

After quickly unpacking our stuff we got to work on feeding ourselves. Upon seeing my gourmet chef give off a reassuring blue flame, the last of my unfounded doubts was put to rest. Given that it was dark and that we all just wanted a good feed, I felt that it was no slight upon my sense of manly, Ray Mears survival abilities to light a fire with the bag of instant BBQ charcoal that I had brought with me. That said, it didn’t stop me looking about with an immense sense of pride as the flames began licking their way skyward. Now that my fire was lit and that our pre-prepared stew was on it’s way to being heated I felt that I had validated my presence here as a “real camper”, not just one of those namby pamby city folk who come down and fumble about in the dark before going home defeated. I won’t mention the fact that I had forgotten to buy batteries for my head torch. Nor will I mention that the gourmet chef gas cooker was pumping out enough heat to boil half a cup of tea in a few hours. All you need to know is that somehow, we ended up with a good, hot meal inside of us and all fell asleep that evening warm and with full bellies.

Camping has been a part of my life from a very young age. When I was young, our family holidays consisted of a dilapidated old family tent which slept all five of us and came complete with a kitchen and closet to hang your clothes in. It was not comparable to the modern day tents which weigh less than a small kitten and can be set up in minutes, after which they offer enough room to host a small dinner party. No, this thing weighed a ton and required a small army just to get in on the roof of our car. The only reason that we were ever able to successfully erect it was due to the years of repetitive training that my parents had subjected us to. Given that we used to go camping in places like North Wales, the Isle of Wight and Brittany in Northern France, we were also required to demonstrate our training in all types of horrendous weather. The experience was also never helped by the fact that my parents friends, who used to join us, had an incredibly modern “combi-camper” which was a trailer that could be unfolded and erected into a luxurious caravan complete with double bed in a matter of minutes. All minor complaints aside, I always loved those holidays and have many good memories (mostly of the numerous fights that occurred over who got the last choc-ice…).

As I got older and branched out on my own, camping became a very useful way of getting out of the house with my friends and being able to drink and smoke as much as we wanted with impunity. In true teenage style, all of us would turn up with nothing but a tent, a sleeping bag, a case of beer and good sized bag of marijuana. Uncontrolled revelry would always ensue with the end of many an evening shrouded in an impenetrable mist that to this day has yet to clear. The following morning we would awake in various positions, sometimes in the sleeping bag, sometimes not, sometimes in the tent, sometimes not and always groggy and covered in a moist layer of morning dew. These experiences were then taken to a new level when I started to frequent the growing number of music festivals which took place all over the country. Amusingly, from the days of my first solo camping trips to as late as the last time I attended Glastonbury in 2005 it never once occurred to me that taking something inflatable to sleep on would greatly enhance my overall enjoyment. Youthful exuberance, it seems, will always overcome simple common sense. Nowadays, I tend to prefer the more organized approach that my parents took, rather than the cavalier “sleep in a ditch” type attitude previous years. After this weekend I’ve also realized the sheer effort that my mum used to put into each trip, some of which she attempted with no other support whatsoever. Thanks Mum!

While camping is certainly a pastime that is practiced in and around Barcelona, it is not something that I got involved in, having spent most of my time there in bars or lounging on the beach. Having a car would most certainly have helped, but nevertheless it was an activity which, while I didn’t realize it at the time, I have missed greatly. There is definitely something to be said for waking up early on a cold sunny morning and cooking your eggs and bacon over an open fire. While the sun here during the winter months serves as decoration only (for it gives precious little heat), that feeling of warmth can be easily replaced by the romantic crackle of an open fire. The cold is here to stay but for now, as the Norwegians say, there is no such thing bad weather, only bad clothing. I may no longer live in the land of eternal sunshine, but I get to see the smoking plumes of my breath when I open the door in the morning, the snow capped beauty of Mount Hood standing guardian over the city and I get to pass on the camping experiences of my childhood to my daughter who, quite rightly, loves every minute of it!