Cath and Math go camping » pitching

Where to pitch a tent

Math — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 13:54:42 +0000

Many busy campsites allocate you a pitch, putting their convenience ahead of your pleasure, denying you the smug feeling of a well-chosen aspect. Resist this, and seek out your own spot. Here are some criteria collated from the works of Horace Kephart, who was concerned with wild camping, and some observations of our own from more domesticated fields.

Find level ground. Consider shade and shelter. Ideally, a spot that gets plenty of sun in the morning to dry the tent.

And pick it clear of twigs, stones and anything that might rip the groundsheet or be uncomfortable to step or sleep on. You are about to embark upon a relationship with the earth, to go cheek-to-cheek with the land, don’t let anything get in the way of that intimacy.

Don’t be tempted to pitch under a tree, lured in by the promise of shelter. When it rains, the branches concentrate the water into a steady focused drip. Leaves fall and stain the flysheet and compromise the waterproofing. If branches break off, they could damage the tent or worse. Dead trees are always unsafe and potentially lethal.

Think carefully before pitching in the the woods. “The experienced man gives woods a rather wide berth,” wrote Thomas Holding. “Woods proper are more or less damp, and the pulpy decayed vegetation bottom gives very bad holding for pegs. In the next place, the tent should get all the sunshine possible, and a wood robs it of at least half of it.”

An open spot elevated above its surroundings gives you good natural drainage. Camp well above any chance overflow from the sudden rise of a neighbouring stream, and observe previous flood marks.

A good summer pitch may be unsuitable in winter, and vice versa. On warm days, the tent should be in a position to enjoy the breeze. But the same spot in the Winter could expose the camp to the prevailing wind.

Where is your campfire going? Can you leave plenty of room between the fire and the tent? And is the prevailing wind going to blow smoke toward the tent or away?

If camping in the wild, your first consideration is a supply of fresh water. Your second is good firewood. Look for rock faces to camp near. Pitch your tent a safe distance from the cliff in case of falling rocks, but set your campfire near to the cliff it so that the heat reflects back off the stone and into camp.

If pitching in the rain, confine the children to the car and give them more biscuits than they require.

At the entrance of the tent, fold back a yard or so of groundsheet, so that anyone entering from the wet will drip onto grass, and not your groundsheet. In Three Men and A Boat, Jerome K Jerome describes pitching a tent in the rain thusly: “It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down on you, and clings around your head and makes you mad. The rain is pouring down steadily all the time. It is difficult enough to fix a tent in dry weather: in wet, the task becomes herculean. Instead of helping you, it seems to you that the other man is simply playing the fool. Just as you get your side beautifully fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end, and spoils it all.”

The most difficult aspect of pitching a tent in the rain is keeping your temper.

How to pitch a tent – Glastonbury

Cath — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 13:44:38 +0000

The serried ranks of tents at Glastonbury

We are heading to Glastonbury again this year. Math will be compering talks at the Free University of Glastonbury on the Saturday, 11am-2pm. Guests will include John Niven, Rob Chapman discussing Syd Barrett, and Joy Division and New Order bassist Peter Hook. The weather forecast for Glastonbury weekend is good, and Math is hard at work prepping for the festival. Here is his tip for pitching your tent at Glasto:

Pitching a tent at a festival

Since it is likely you will be returning to the tent at night and in a state of confusion, making the tent easy to find is your first concern. Some people make flags with distinctive homemade patterns. I can still recall the “horse, hand, star” crest used by my friends twenty years ago. Etch the flag with strips of fluorescent material. Others will pitch the tent in a memorable location, near to a thoroughfare or at the very back of the field. I disagree with this approach. The edges of the field, whether it be hedge or fence, will invariably become an improvised urinal – or worse – over the course of the weekend. And thoroughfares are absolutely to be avoided, as confused people are likely to blunder off the walkway into camp.

At a festival, the tent is only for sleeping in. Camp serves no other purpose. The enemy of sleep is noise. Camp as far away from the dance tent as possible, and steer clear of fellow campers bearing acoustic guitars or bongos, or indeed any individual who looks susceptible to paranoia, as nothing disturbs a good night’s sleep like a conspiracy theory concerning aircraft contrails and chemicals being sprayed over the city. Worse case scenario is a paranoid musician.

Where To Pitch A Tent

Math — Thu, 07 May 2009 10:49:49 +0000

I woke up this morning on the floor of a Hackney flat overlooking London Fields. As I lay there, mind churning to restart, I considered the question of where to pitch a tent.

Keswick, 1968

On level ground free of stones or roots, with soil that is not so boggy as to indicate risk of flooding. Neither on top of a hill nor directly at the bottom and certainly not half-way up. Do not pitch directly under large leafy trees, as a steady run-off of rainfall and greenery can damage the outer tent, but stay proximate to any shade they may offer. Take advantage of natural cover from the wind such as hedgerows. So far, so obvious.

The sensible pitcher, having taken account of nature, then considers human needs. Close to water and ablutions but not too close. Plan out in your mind where you are going to cook and whether the smoke will blow into your tent or that of your neighbour’s. Leave a sufficient distance between yourself and other tents to perpetuate the illusion of privacy. When I prepare to pitch, my senses buzz with the awareness of territory already claimed; the temporary ownership rights of others, the fine line between joining a group and infringing upon it.

We pitch our tents far apart so that our hearts may stay closer together

Back in the Hackney flat, I rose and dressed, and took the liberty of making myself a cup of tea. The previous evening I had broken the cardinal rule of pitching – I had set my bed in the dark. The arrangement of sofa cushions, bust sleeping bag and empty cans of lager did not represent best practise. My host remained in bed. On the balcony I drank a brew and watched the school run. Three children in yellow safety helmets rode bikes of descending size behind their mother. A brother and sister hurried to make the bell but still did not let go of one another’s hands.

In my mind, I addressed these youngsters with the self-satisfaction of experience:
Don’t pitch your tent within sight of the pyramid stage, I thought. You’ll regret it.
Don’t pitch your tent next to the bonfire, unless you like to fall asleep to the sound of bongos and conspiracy theories concerning contrails.
Don’t pitch your tent right next door to your friends.

There is a Bedouin proverb: we pitch our tents far apart so that our hearts may stay closer together. Far apart so that the sound of their snoring will not disturb. Far apart so that the first thing you see in the morning is not their battered hungover face as it emerges from the tent to verify suspicions about the weather. And, most crucially, far apart so that we are spared the hell of one another domestic routines. No-one should have to listen to me harrying the children into line. No-one should have to listen to Cath and I debate breakfast, the constant exchange of banal information required to keep the family on target. Let us get our shit together before we are expected to be social. Let me at least wash my face.

We are both currently off the treadmill of regular paid employment, as is the fashion this season

I often cite this Bedouin proverb when friends suggest renting a cottage together. Regardless of everyone’s good intentions, such holidays have an undertone of passive aggressive negotiation about differing domestic standards. Families can’t share kitchens. Camping is better – let us come together around the ancient brotherhood of a campfire, rather than around a dining table, with its baggage of bourgeois food performance anxiety and over-familiar topics of conversation.

Nine o’clock came and went. My host remained in bed. We are both currently off the treadmill of regular paid employment, as is the fashion this season. Still, I had an appointment to keep with a job I once had. A job that I meet now and again for coffee: the final negotiations in the break-up of a long-term relationship. I called up the stairs to thank my host for his hospitality but he was asleep. So I packed up the sleeping bag, restored the sofa cushions to their place, and crushed up the empty cans and placed them in the recycling. How you strike camp is as important as how you pitch it. One simple rule applies. Leave No Trace. I opened the windows to air the room and thus I left it just as I had found it.