Summer​​​​​​​ Camp

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At this distance – clothed, computered, a city ceiling above me – my camping memories are all aglow. The sun sets beyond banksias, kookaburras crack their final jokes for the evening, goannas tuck themselves into crooks of gum trees, and all the sand and salt of the day is sluiced off under bush showers. There’s that gleaming, spacious feeling.

It also feels like dinnertime, which must be why there’s a gin and tonic in my hand, a tomahawk grilling over coals and a full deck of salads ready to go. We’ve steamed green beans and tossed them with salted ricotta and currants. The tomatoes that were ripening in the trailer for a week have been chopped, salted, peppered and olive-oiled. Waxy potatoes are tumbled with red onion, cornichons, and a retro sour cream and mayo swirl. Someone’s pulled out a special bottle of red, with another waiting in the wings. A couple of blokes pour wine into Duralex glasses, swirling it like proper toffs.