To the Retreat: Before We Go
We are going camping.
That sentence makes it sound wonderfully spontaneous.
It isn't.
We haven't camped for years. We used to love it, then Covid happened, life happened, and somehow something we enjoyed quietly disappeared from our lives.
Recently, we've started talking about it again.
Mike has a new job, so annual leave needs a little more coordination. My own work has been particularly intense lately, and getting away from it all feels increasingly important.
And summer is beginning to disappear.
The evenings are darker. It's a little cooler. We spend more time indoors. The barbecue and pizza oven aren't called into service quite so often, and more food starts being cooked in the kitchen again.
Even the tea towel starts appearing on the side.
Elsie likes that.
It smells of her favourite people.
And food.
Two of her favourite things.
Sometimes it's even found on the floor.
It's hard when the house forgets.
The house forgets, we all forget. There's a seasonal change happening, and we're part of it too.
Around us, September quietly rearranges things. The schools nearby reopen. People start walking past the house again — towards them in the mornings and away from them in the afternoons. Children talk, shout, run and generally do what children do. Traffic builds. Doors close a little earlier.
And somewhere amongst all of that, Charlie turned four.
He doesn't know it was 8 September.
He doesn't know it's September at all.
But I'm fairly certain both he and Elsie know something is changing.
I Like a Plan
I've always liked a plan.
I like to think, research, explore and understand my options.
Usually there is a laptop involved.
I'll work an idea through until I've reached a reasonable level of certainty, then I can put it down. When I pick it up again, sometimes months or years later, I'll look at what's changed and decide whether the original thinking still makes sense.
Apparently this isn't how everybody lives.
I was doing it before Charlie even existed.
Mike and I knew we'd eventually get a dog. We were moving house first and wanted life to settle into a new rhythm before we did.
A few years before Charlie arrived, we'd already added a larger tent to our camping gear.
There needed to be space for us and a future dog. I'd even thought about where a crate could go if one was needed.
I've recently found my old workings.
Yes.
Workings.
For a dog we didn't yet have.
The hens were planned too. We researched how we could keep chickens properly in a suburban garden without surrendering our lives to poultry management. We chose hardy Sussex birds suited to British weather and deliberately looked towards more docile hens because we knew chickens and dogs would eventually share the garden.
I even knew I wanted a second dog considerably earlier than Mike knew I wanted a second dog.
I told him eventually.
Apparently I've now started looking at Red Sussex too.
I haven't told him that either.
There is a pattern.
But the Question Has Changed
Before Charlie arrived, we'd imagined plenty of things we'd do with our future dog.
Walks. Holidays. Days out. Adventures.
Camping, obviously.
There was nothing wrong with that.
But they were our plans.
Then Charlie arrived.
Then Elsie.
And over the years we've learned that sharing our lives with dogs isn't simply about everything we want to do with them.
It's also about what we're prepared to ask them to accept and deal with so that we can do those things.
There's a difference.
We went through much the same thinking before our first forest cabin staycation. We considered the environment, where they'd sleep, what they'd encounter and whether including them was actually the right choice.
We've made the opposite decision too.
They've stayed in kennels while we've gone away.
They didn't come to our garden party this summer.
And that's okay.
Our dogs don't have to go everywhere we go.
So when Mike and I started talking seriously about camping again, I found myself asking a different question from the one I'd asked all those years ago when I bought a tent with enough room for a future dog.
Not:
Can Charlie and Elsie come camping?
But:
Should they?
Going Dog Friendly
There are plenty of campsites that accept dogs.
But I've increasingly wondered whether dog friendly and friendly to my dogs are necessarily the same thing.
Camping is something Mike and I want to do.
We want to rediscover something we used to enjoy. We want a few days away. We want to reconnect with outside just as the darker evenings begin drawing us back indoors.
I'd love Charlie and Elsie to be part of that.
But wanting them there isn't enough reason to take them.
So we thought about what we'd actually be asking of them.
And then, obviously, I started planning.
We deliberately chose an enclosed electric pitch in Devon.
We've never camped with electric before.
Apparently we've gone soft.
We're going Monday to Friday.
Monday is travel, arrival and pitching.
Then:
Relax.
Relax.
Relax.
Friday is taking everything down and travelling home.
There are walks we could do and places we could visit.
But we don't have to.
If the four of us spend a day around the tent doing absolutely bugger all, that's fine too.
This isn't an itinerary Charlie and Elsie are required to complete.
Making Room
Naturally, the tents themselves have been researched too.
Quite extensively.
There has even been MoSCoW.
I use it to prioritise and challenge requirements — what must something do, what should it do, what could it do, and what can we accept it won't do this time?
Apparently I don't leave that part of my brain at work.
Two very different future tent options eventually came out with maximum scores against our requirements. One offers a more enclosed, all-season setup. The other is more open and summery, with an awning I love because it almost frames the view.
Both give us something I really wanted: one big living space.
Because that's how we live at home.
Charlie and Elsie don't need to be constantly entertained by us. They like being around us while everybody gets on with their own thing.
Charlie sleeps.
Elsie lies half on and half off her bed, snoring and grunting like the little piglet she really is.
At night, we all sleep in the bedroom.
So if we're going to create a temporary home, I want somewhere the four of us can simply be. Something easy to erect. Less drama, more calm.
This, incidentally, is how I've justified buying what Mike probably considers several hundred million tents. One of the tents we already own is actually perfectly suitable — it was specifically bought with a future dog in mind.
It also requires both humans and a considerable amount of enthusiasm to put it up.
The glamping tents can be pitched by one person.
I rest my case.
Somewhere their beds can go.
Somewhere we can sit if it rains.
Somewhere doing nothing is an entirely acceptable activity.
And then, rather conveniently, an opportunity came along to buy an ex-glamping canvas tent.
It's an older version of a design I'd already researched and shortlisted, but could no longer find available new anywhere. So when an ex-glamping one appeared for sale, naturally, my extensive tent research suddenly became useful.
So rather than being a completely different compromise for our first trip, it gives us the opportunity to test some of the thinking we've already done.
Live in the space.
See how easily we settle into it.
More importantly, see how Charlie and Elsie settle into it.
Because eventually research has to meet reality.
Their Space Stays Theirs
The same thinking went into the journey.
Charlie and Elsie already travel comfortably together. We put their beds behind our seats, extending the back-seat area so they have plenty of room to settle and snooze.
Camping requires considerably more stuff.
So we bought a roof box.
Not because Charlie and Elsie require an extraordinary amount of holiday luggage.
Because we do.
Their travelling arrangement already works.
Our decision to take half the contents of our house to Devon doesn't need to change it.
Their space stays theirs.
And when we arrive, those same familiar beds can become part of our temporary home.
Before We Go
None of this guarantees Charlie and Elsie will enjoy camping.
That's important.
The enclosed pitch won't stop the world existing outside it.
Their beds won't make Devon smell like home.
Going Monday to Friday doesn't guarantee peace and quiet.
And no amount of tent research can tell me whether Elsie will be asleep half off her bed by Tuesday afternoon or wondering why her humans have abandoned a perfectly serviceable house to live under canvas.
We can think about the conditions.
We can reduce some of what we're asking them to manage.
We can give them time.
We can change our plans.
But we can't decide their response.
What we can do is lead them through the change. If dogs live in the moment, then how we approach those moments matters. We can set the tone, remain calm and consistent, and show them that this strange new temporary home isn't something they need to take responsibility for.
Years ago, before Charlie even existed, I was planning how to make room for a dog in our tent.
Now I'm asking whether camping deserves a place in their lives too.
I don't know the answer yet.
I've researched.
I've planned.
I've questioned whether taking them is the right thing to do.
I've probably questioned whether I've questioned it enough.
Mike has survived.
But there's one thing no amount of planning, MoSCoW assessments or late-night tent browsing can tell me.
What Charlie and Elsie will actually think of camping.
On 21 September, the laptop closes.
Then they get to tell us.
To the retreat. We go...
Russ
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