Under canvas: Camping in OxfordshireIn a moment of weakness, Clover Stroud has agreed to go camping every weekend this summer with her young children, Jimmy Joe, and Dolly.
It is a Sunday afternoon and when it stops raining for 10 minutes I take Hay, my Jack Russell, and my two children for a walk in the field behind the house.
Hay chases rabbits in the brambles that grow close to the railway line and Jimmy Joe, who is seven, and Dolly, four, make a camp in the cow parsley that is already starting to lose some of its froth and go to seed.
The confetti of blossom that litters our path during spring has passed, and the grass is nearly waist high, dotted with buttercups and poppies.
The children try to persuade me to take our tent out to the field to camp for the night, but it's Sunday, and that means violin practice and homework and packed lunches to make for tomorrow morning. But I promise them both that we will go camping all the time this summer.
"All the time? Every weekend?" says Jimmy Joe, squinting at me through the slanting evening sun. "Okay. Sure," I hear myself saying. "Let's camp every weekend."
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