Camping in Britain

It's hot in here.
And it smells slightly.
Through the pegged flaps.
Past dew damp trainers and gristly, hastily washed dinner plates,
the grey sky's heart beat is lively with wind whipped leaves.
There's more than a chance of heavy rain.
A bedraggled circle of young men stand huddled over mugs of tea. Rearing with hungover, breakfast bright laughter.
In here you can hear everything from 12am, drunken hoots to a family's morning minutiae.
Late last night two couples in separate tents had spoken low and close. Now they loudly discuss the added flavour of butter in beans and mountain biking.
A smatter of drizzle comes and goes.
The inner net is as wet as rain drenched canvas.
And the damp wood's making more smoke than fire.
Now the thick bottomed pan spits fat.
The bacon's frying. And the tea's turning tangy in a plastic cup.
The sky's still unremittingly grey but it's going to be a rather wonderful day.
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