A phone call on Friday morning affirmed our decision to call off the camping trip we had planned with my parents. It was the steward from the site calling to let me know that the field was under six inches of water and that she would refund our money as we couldn’t possibly camp there for the weekend. A quite unexpected bonus it has to be said.
So while the country suffered from the deluge of rain, we settled down to a quiet family weekend. It was interrupted by a knock at the door on Saturday morning by the postie, bearing the gift of roofrack feet. With no need for it immediately we ignored the parcel until yesterday when I came home from the school run to find Husband arguing with the roof of his car and brandishing a small screwdriver.
Having ushered the children inside I ventured back out to lend a hand. It seemed like a simple enough task – pop out the covers on the roof, screw in the feet, line up the bars and attach the box. But five minutes later and it started.
First it was just a slow drizzle, nothing to write home about but the kind that makes my hair go from straightened to frightened in 60 seconds. All sticky-out and frizzy.
But Mother Nature soon found her stride and soon the drizzle had developed into proper drops.
In the end it took two of us the best part of an hour to fit the box and set it up. Once on we unbolted the foot from the roof and carried it in to the garage in one unit, ready to be fixed back on the next time we dare plan a trip.
It seems anything related to us and camping is to rain clouds what Fifty Shades of Grey is to most 30-something women – irresistable and habit-forming. If I’d known that earlier I’d have bought all of the camping gear sooner and solved this whole drought problem single-handed. Laters baby…