Last Man Camping

Each year our church joined with hundreds of other Christian campers for a family camp on an agricultural showground. This was one of the highlights of the boys’ summer holiday and we made every effort to go. As soon as we arrived at the site, the boys would jump out of the car to race off and find friends. All three were buzzing.

Josh loved all the sights, sounds and smells of this holiday; he was surrounded by his favourite people, music and food. Once our tent was pitched, we’d give him a tour of the site and then set about making everything in our temporary camping world Josh-friendly. The spare sleeping pod was transformed into a temporary larder, tightly zipped up and shielded by camping chairs. A wind breaker at the entrance of the tent helped Josh feel less territorial. No one could take him by surprise with a chipper ‘hello’. Visitors were made to walk around it giving Joshua extra time to get used to their arrival. Comfy chairs, rugs and foot stools reminded Josh of home and a sofa and television inside a small outbuilding was ideal for any ‘time out’ that he may need.

Once he was reassured that all was as it should be, Josh ate his dinner and went to bed. The sleeping pod that he and I shared was the epitome of cosiness. This was the point that he usually relaxed and we could be reasonably reassured there were no surprises in store. We thought we had this holiday sussed as we had done it so many times before.

However, as parents of a differently able child, we were foolish to think we could prepare for every eventuality. The complex patterns in his behaviour meant that we could never predict a certain outcome. On my last and final camping trip with Josh, I encountered a tale of the unexpected.

In the middle of our first night I awoke to the sound of unzipping; Joshua had escaped from our sleeping compartment and was somewhere in the main tent. My graceless tumble off the air bed and out of the pod triggered giggling in my errant son. Reassured that he was still under canvas but unable to locate my torch, his whereabouts were unknown. The clatter of chairs and the sound of another zip orientated me to our ‘larder’. He was cornered. When we returned to our pod, I placed my air bed across the entrance reasoning that any further attempt at escape would have to go past me. Indeed it did. Every 15 minutes until morning.

The next day Andy and I rearranged the sleeping area. We hid the zip under a pile of pillows; the addition of my head at nighttime would further conceal it from view. All I had to do was get through a day of hearing a zip open and close both in my head and on the campsite.

On the second night, our plan worked. Joshua didn’t try to escape. However, I was awoken by a strong faecal smell. Repugnant in such a tiny space, I feverishly searched for the zip and opened the pod. As I gulped in the fresh air, Josh, ever the opportunist, tried to escape again. I shone my torch and caught him.

I had never changed a pad in total darkness before. Both hands were necessary for the process so I held the torch in my mouth. Joshua, thinking this was a funny game, began to try and grab it. I clamped my teeth down and tried hard not to gag. Much wriggling and grappling later, Josh was finally freshened up. I frenetically wafted the main tent flap but when we returned to bed, our airless pod retained the smell until morning. I struggled to sleep.

By day 3 my mood had dipped; Andy took over the reins. Time on my own and an abundance of fresh air helped. I went to bed that night ready for anything. A supply of torches, changing materials and pillows were my weapons of warfare. No more mischief.

I awoke in darkness; Josh seemed to be laying on me. As I tried to manoeuvre him back to his airbed he quickly returned to mine. Sleepily, I realised why; his bed was deflated. My attempts to blow it up were futile and it remained completely flat. I made room for Josh on my mattress and we both fell asleep. Aware of the ground, I awoke again; my own bed was also flat. Numerous ineffectual attempts were made to inflate it. At sun rise I spotted bite marks on the PVC. Joshua had bitten holes in both our air beds.

Desperate and with Josh in tow, I woke Andy and told him I was going home. The cheery ‘good mornings’ from early risers on the campsite did nothing to lift my spirits. I fixed my teary eyes on the ground, unable to share the anguish and misery that I felt.

A couple of hours later, we were curled up on the sofa at home. Joshua had relaxed. I realised that the excitement and change of routine had been stressful for him. Even though he enjoyed being there, the whole experience had become too much for him to deal with; he didn’t have the ability to self regulate his emotions. He was dependant on us to do that for him by adapting his circumstances. We both chilled and watched his favourite TV programmes. That night, back in his own bed, he was at peace.

We returned to the camp the next day with a change of identity. We were now ‘day visitors’ and would remain so for the years to come.

The following year Josh and I discovered Travel Lodge.