The tent’s occupants have a thirst to quench,
They’ve walked for miles over farm field and grove,
So come back now to the portable stove,
They’ve walked for miles over meadow and nettle,
So come back now to the portable kettle,
Their feet are warn through,
So you know what to do,
Gather the crew and put on a brew,
Brig out bourbons and tea bread,
Because we need to be fed,
Kick a wasp in the head,
Spill tea instead,
Gather round, gather round,
It’s nothing profound,
Just hot water and tea bread,
And a chair on the ground,
Sit down now by the portable kettle,
Here’s an old chair where your bones can settle,
It’s nothing complex,
It’s just hollow metal,
But how we love our portable kettle.
Yes, it might well be a sickeningly heart warming poem, but my heart was warmed when I wrote it. It’s the product of a nice little camping holiday in the Malverns, featuring four (including Elinor) friends, one kettle, Olympic nettle wading, the pub map, Captain Morgans, an exploding air bed, a dog who licked our frying pan, graceful gate hurdling (not), night time takeaway pizza in a field, scones the size of my head, and Elinor humming and swearing in her sleep. But Back now and back to the old blogging. We missed you.
EDIT; My sister in Law has informed me that I wrote ‘the tent’s occupants have a THRUST to quench’ which sounds very sexual.Oh dear, I’ve now corrected it and it’s THIRST dears, THIRST.