A Farewell to Alarms

After Six Months’ Camping, I’m Moving On

*This was written around 20 July. Since moving, I’ve had a lot of trouble connecting to the internet. Thanks to the remarkable patience of our local computer expert, the situation is being rectified. Thanks to the paucity of my pension entitlement, it will take a while.

This article actually precedes A Note From My Mum, but not by much.

The two tiny houses in La Gomera are now my daughter’s property. I have almost zero mothering skills and ended up with this wonderful person who will let me live in one of her houses. (The second house is for renovation.) So I’ve changed islands.

It’s not really far; you can see La Gomera from El Hierro, and El Hierro from La Gomera, but the actual moving was complicated.

Goodbye to the Campsite

It was a lovely place, but I knew summer would be rough; full of slightly-alarming events that life always keeps handy, in case it feels like irritating you.

Most people are okay and mind their own business. Some were kind and friendly. A few were horrible, and we always remember those. Like the family who gave their children piercing referee-style whistles, without considering that others campers might like to sleep at night. Or in the morning. Or at all.

I developed the theory that organised groups were less trouble than families, but my last two weeks’ camping revealed it’s more complicated than that.

The Scouts from Hell

They weren’t actually bad; in fact they were friendly and polite. The problem was with numbers. There were fifty of them, and fifty excited children are not going to be quiet and unobtrusive. They also made a mess in places usually clean and tidy.

Before they came, one of their leaders assured us they wouldn’t annoy anyone. They were underestimating how easy it is to annoy me, and/or how annoying even nice children could be if sufficiently numerous. I am not used to children, or to large numbers of people, and they represented both.

The scouts spent two weeks wrecking the place, not maliciously but leaving holes, and bits of string everywhere, and with their feet turning the dry ground into powder which stuck to everything. I washed my feet frequently, like one of those people who is obsessed with hygiene.

Then they left. To be fair, they tidied up before going.

Just to put doubts on my usual low opinion of couples and families, my last neighbours at the campsite were a couple who were big into fishing, and very kindly gave me a lift to Valverde with my two suitcases and two sports bags, and a family with several nice, well-behaved children.

Generalising never works; we are all individuals. We should get to know people, then develop an opinion. We often get others hopelessly wrong at first.

The Last Annoyance — Up yours, Mussolini

On my last day, a new worker appeared. Maybe he was covering holidays for the regular staff, who were all very nice guys. Something happens to silly little fat men if you give them a uniform, even just a green jumper. It’s a sort of Mussolini complex.

This arsehole ordered me to take down my washing line. He said it was against regulations. I never heard of this; in six months, I’d never seen any regulations. If true it was a stupid rule anyway. I suspect he invented it because he wanted to boss someone about.

Bad choice, shitface. I have never obeyed orders, and won’t start now. If you prohibit something, I feel impelled to do it. Some of us are just perverse. Besides, my little washing line wasn’t in anyone’s way:

The only rules needed at any campsite are those necessary to prevent fires (often a worry in summer), and those designed to ensure hygiene. It doesn’t matter a fuck where anyone hangs their washing. After removing the silly rules, any worth keeping should be displayed in public places, and applied to everyone equally.

I gave that worker the Snake Island Response and settled down to relax for my last afternoon at the camp. It was one of those days when a mixture of sun and shade filters through the pine trees, and the rooks came and went like they were wishing me well. I threw them some bread.

Mussolini lurked around for a while, then disappeared, maybe to carry out my suggestion.

Moving On

Who cares? Campsites are always temporary. Now I had a house to move to.

I’d seen it and loved it already. I wanted a little house because cleaning is such a crap job. This has a small living space (including a bed), kitchen, bathroom, and a triangle of land where I can make a garden — like student accommodation, but with horticulture added.

After what felt like an interminable wait, but was only a few weeks, I got the keys. It was time to go. I left my tent behind. It had been a useful temporary home, but it’s time for a proper roof over my head.

A new life, on a new island which I like already, though there will be a whole new set of minor alarms to deal with now. I’ll also miss El Hierro and all the nice people I knew there.

And these guys:

Highly intelligent birds, who can even copy your voice. One used to sit in a tree near my tent and say “Hola.” I’m sure they will make new friends. Crows also fly over my new home, but prefer to nest higher in the mountains. Must take a walk up there.