A year ago we made a reservation at Carnarvon Gorge for a week in May with a bunch of our mates who would all be in their tents or caravans.
According to our plan, we would have our van by then, but in case our plan should go the way our plans often do, we booked one of those hut/cabin/tent things with its own ensuite, the kind that cost about the same per night as a week in a luxury hotel, as a contingency.
So certain were we of realising our plan, that we quite deliberately burnt our bridges, and sold our camping setup, including tent, battery, solar panel and refrigerator. We WOULD have a van by then wouldn't we?
Well no actually as things turned out.
Vans are very thin on the ground in this neck of the woods, their value inflating at a greater rate than BitCoin, so there we were, tentless, with a commitment to spend more on that week of sub-luxury than we'd received for our entire camping inventory.
In the depths of the Gorge, we had time to ponder our lot… Were we really sad to be at the far end of the camping ground?
Sad to be so far away from our mates, dry and warm, but without the joy of walking to the amenities block in the damp chill of the wee small hours, far from that smell of campfire smoke permeating everything we owned, completely without risk of finding spiders in our boots, with insect screens keeping admittedly a better class of mosquito far from where they could do us ill?
No one could accuse us of not knowing what we were missing!
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