Crackling campfires with orange glowing licks of light that shoot up into the stars. The galaxy of stars over head, on show for free, that seem to go out into infinity, almost like I coulds reach out and scoop up a handful. A handful of stardust that could be sprinkled on crying infants putting themto sleep, to stressed workers with too many worries- go to sleep.

Sitting on a big log we’ve dragged over, staring into those mesmorising triangle of flame that reach for the stars. Letting the fire boil down to the glowing embers, a bright orange crush where the fury of the flames once was. Over the crackles come conversations , questions about life the universe and everything, it’s easy to become philosophical out here away from everything, away from city polutuion, just the clean clean air of the wide open and the smoke from the campfire. Smoke gets in your eyes sometimes when sitting around it drifts your way and you curse the gods of the wind and it starts to sting your eyes until they water until you are a faucet that cannot be stopped and then you move the the other side and somehow the wind knows and chases you round to taunt you.

Marshmellows, spongy sweet pockets stuck on the end of a stick, best held over glowing coals and not thrust into hasty flames. Gooey sticky gluey melted mass. The dillema is finding a stick inthe dark, washing the torchlight over the ground looking for something suitable, trying not to trip up on the place where you just were that you can no longer see. getting too far away from the fire and feeeling the warm glow, the emanation, the smile of warmth from that fire , makes your own heart glow with peace and relaxation, the knowledge that for a day or two you’re away from it all, just you and your friends out there camping in the elements, going to sleep in flimsy tents that are drowned with light in the morning and the stupid birds that haven’t heard of sleeping in. That’s why you’re here , that’s why you’re doing it aren’t you?