A little while ago my Mum and my hairdresser laughed at me (we've known each other a long time). They thought I was mad because I was excited about going camping in Cornwall.
My Mum said she grew out of camping long ago. My hairdresser loathes all thought of it.
Fair enough, but this summer I've been rediscovering the things I love to do, and they're making me quite inordinately happy. (I wasn't well last summer. Being confined to the sofa made me realise how much I missed these things.)
They don't seem childish to me, and I wonder why we're supposed to grow out of them? Who on earth wants to be grown up if it means no more ...
waking as the sun warms your tent and a robin is singing only three feet above your head
taking your canoe down the river on a sunny day and watching the world float by
lying in a meadow among the flowers and butterflies, hearing nothing but grasses and bees
swimming in the river before breakfast, swallows in the air just above me, fish invisible in the water below.
If that's being grown up, I think I'll take my time getting there. It's time for a swim ...
