By the time I reach the patio, I am drenched, panting, and thoroughly questioning every single decision that led me here.
But at least, finally, I am out of the rain.
27
Exile in the Shower Shed
Ivy
Eight o’clock. It isonly eight o’clock.
I stare at the time on my phone, willing the numbers to move faster. No signal. Still. Of course.
I tried the landline on the wall of the shower shed earlier, but naturally, that wasn’t working either. I pressed the receiver to my ear, listened to the deafening silence, and then hung it back up with athunkthat probably conveyed more frustration than necessary.
So, no phone. No internet. No way to check the weather forecast. No way to call the campsite owner and say,Hey, remember me? The clueless city woman pretending she knows how to camp? Yeah, well, I’m currently squatting in your shower shed like a cold, damp gremlin, so if you could pop by with a cuppa, that’d be great.
I sigh and push the mobile back into my pocket.
At least my situation has somewhat improved. My tent is no longer a miserable pile of wet fabric; it’s now propped up inside the shower block, where it can dry without the risk of turning into a makeshift kite. My sleeping bag isdraped over one of the cubicle doors, hopefully drying out as well.
And, most importantly, I am dry.
Well, mostly.
After stripping off my wet clothes, I’d thrown on dry hiking trousers, thick socks, a fleece jumper, and my jacket—bless my overpacking habits. For once, my tendency to bring three times the amount of clothes I actually need has worked in my favour. Theo laughed at me when I told him that I am bringing a fleece jumper in August but who is laughing now?
I sit on a picnic bench I’ve shoved up against the shed wall, my back pressed against the rough wood, bracing myself for a long, cold night.
The wind howls, rattling the wooden beams above me. Every so often, a particularly strong gust sprays a fine mist of rain into my face, because of course it does. I sigh and wipe my cheek with my sleeve, scowling at the weather as if that might convince it to behave.
It does not.
I glance at my torch, which is resting beside me, casting a dim glow over the small space. The battery is still good, but I know I’ll have to be careful with it if I want it to last through the night. The idea of sitting here in total darkness does not appeal.
Another violent gust of wind tears through the trees, sending an eerie creak through the shower shed’s structure. The sound makes my skin prickle.
I cross my arms, tucking my fingers into my armpits to warm them. I am fine. This is fine.
I try to think of something—anything—to distract myself.
Food.
Not a great topic, considering my options are still limited.
I fish out the Jammie Dodgers from my bag and rip the packet open. “Emergency biscuits,” I murmur, remembering Lucy’s solemn little face as she handed them over.
I take a small bite, trying to make them last longer. They’re slightly crushed from being shoved into my bag, but they still taste good. Comforting. A small victory in an otherwise spectacular failure of an evening.
The rain continues to lash down, the wind roaring through the trees. I let my head fall back against the shed wall, chewing slowly, staring up at the rafters.
Tomorrow—sod camping: I’m finding the campsite owner first thing and getting a lift into the next village. There’s bound to be a B&B with a warm bed, hot food, and—if the gods have any mercy—a strong cup of tea.
And honestly? That sounds like a much better way to enjoy the countryside. I can take long walks, breathe in the fresh air, maybe even find some inner peace before heading back to a place with walls, a proper roof, and zero risk of waking up in a puddle.
Yes. That’s the plan. Camping isn’t for everyone, and that’s fine. It’s definitely not for me.
I sigh, nibbling on my biscuit, already feeling relieved at the idea of not spending another night like this.
