It’s been surprisingly easy not to blog for the past week. When I first started writing here, I would fret if I didn’t get a post up every single day. Every. Single. Day. I’m much more relaxed about the whole thing now. Practically catatonic, in fact…
Part of the problem has been the sciatica that followed me home from the bush. Yes, camping is very good for you from a bushwalking/swimming/fresh air perspective. Not so good from a ‘compressed nerve from sleeping on an air mattress’ perspective. I’ve found it difficult to sit and… well, do anything frankly. I wrote a feature story under the influence of pain medication the other day – and can’t remember a single thing about it. I can only hope I got my sentences in the right order.
I must also confess that I enjoyed switching off. There was no mobile reception where we went (which made finding the place a challenge of old-fashioned proportions). I didn’t really miss it. Well, maybe the nightly Words With Friends ritual I seem to have established. But that was all. There is so much white noise in our lives these days – tweeting, updating, emailing. Take it away and there’s just talking, thinking… or silence. It’s not a bad way to live.
We immersed ourselves in the grey-green of the bush. Surrounded by the ghostly white trunks of gums. A slip and slide down a steep bank to the river, where the water was fresh and shone golden in the sunlight. A lovely place to wash off the film of dirt that had us all spray-tanned dark brown. The days were bright and warm. The nights were clear and cold. The campfire was a hungry beast, stoked day and night, wafting us all in the aroma of Eau de Smoke. With top notes of bacon.
Would I go camping again? Yes, I would. Assuming I could take a queen-size pillow-top mattress with me. I’ll need to go back anyway – it seems I left my blogging mojo somewhere under a tree.