Remember the good old days of musty canvas tents and wood-framed army cots and privies in the woods — the days when men were men and women were masochists? You, too, can relive your youth.
You can go backpacking.
Would your kids really die of shame if you walked down your main street wearing hiking boots and a rucksack? Last summer, as I got into a taxi while the rest of my family packed a minivan for their own trip, I heard one of my kids mutter, "Boy, I'm glad she's not coming with us!" But they survive.
Besides, it's my kids' fault I started backpacking in the first place. Whenever the family chose a summer destination, I always held the dissenting opinion. Seaside: 10, Mountains: 1. Yet despite the threat of an eternity of gritty bathing suits and sand-impregnated towels, for years I hesitated to go off alone.
Sure, I tried to find a hiking companion. You wouldn't believe the number of women who told me they'd love to come — but. You wouldn't believe their excuses, either. "But I must have flush toilets" (we're not talking holes in the ground here; even chemical toilets were unacceptable). "But my husband won't let me" (probably not even with a regiment of Amazons). "But I have to bring my baby" (which not only guaranteed no peace; it also hinted that whoever benefited from sharing the weight of the common gear, it wouldn't be me).
And then I began to wonder just what sort of conditions these people expected, anyway. Two ladies once asked me to plan several days' worth of scenic hiking in Scotland for them. I gave them a memorable tour that took in mountain, moor, glen, and sea loch. I warned them about good walking shoes and weatherproof clothing. What I didn't think to tell them was not to walk those rough paths pulling suitcases on a little luggage trolley. I think they lasted half a mile. They did say the views were beautiful, after all — through a bus window.
I finally decided that I would have to go it alone. If the mountain wouldn't come to Henye, Henye would go to the mountains. I have to congratulate myself on the decision. On my first solo visit to a campsite, I, the over-fifty, Orthodox Jewish woman, found myself the site mascot. Everybody took a protective interest in me. After all, how many women my age spend their holidays with a rucksack and a tent (and no car)?
The reason for this isn't lunacy; it's economy.
The cheapest way to tour is camping. For as little as two pounds a night you get all the land you need for your tent (sometimes even flat enough to keep you from sliding downhill all night), an outside cold tap for drinking water, real flush toilets (most of the time), a sink with hot water (until it runs out), and a mirror. No, actually what you get is a piece of mirror. For some reason, all cheap campsites traditionally provide half a mirror, with just enough silvering left for you to almost see how many mosquito bites you have. If there's enough light in the washroom. If there's any light in the washroom.
Sleeping is no problem. If you're deaf. You think it's quiet out in the country, don't you? I'm not talking about the expensive campsite I once visited (£3.50 a night) with the only pub for miles directly across the road. That road turned out to be the main route between the pub and the rest of Scotland, and the entire population drove along it all night. No, I'm talking about the really rural places, where the bus only runs once a day and you then have to walk a mile and a half from the bus stop across sheep-studded moorland. The peace and quiet of the countryside. There's nothing like it. Except possibly Lower Manhattan during rush hour.
In Scotland there's a place that's infested with cuckoos. The first morning I got really excited. I had never heard a real live cuckoo before. I didn't see one here, either, but the entire time I was at that campsite there was a mechanical cuck-oo, cuck-oo, like an unoiled pump. The entire countryside. All day, all night. (Between you and me, I can't understand why every cuckoo in the world hasn't been stuffed.)
Sheep farmers are weird people. They have a compulsion to move their flock around at eleven at night. Always into the field next to you, except when it's into your field. Baa baa baaa . . . soprano to bass, top volume. You try sleeping through that. The sheep settle down about three a.m., but don't get your hopes up. Remember, you're sleeping in a tent. Everybody else is in a tent too. You know, there's something more maddening than being kept awake by your husband's snoring; it's being kept awake by somebody else's husband's snoring.
There's a campsite in Wales with a rooster who takes his job seriously. Seven in the morning, on the dot, he struts into the field — oo-oo-oo-OO! He looks around. No response. He crows again. He waits. He eyes the tents. Still nothing. Finally he goes to each tent and stands outside it, crowing, until you stick your head out and swear at him and satisfy his tiny chicken mind. I prayed for that rooster; I prayed he'd turn into chicken soup.
The government gets in on this wake-up act too. At seven-fifteen the first jet training flight roars over the hill just above your tent. You know those little machines the dentist uses to mix the stuff for your fillings? It's like being inside one of those. Then, just to make sure you're really awake, they send another jet five minutes after the first one. The special Ministry of Defense snooze alarm.
Of course, nowadays things are easier, since they built the steps. But the steps are made for six-foot he-men with legs that start at their armpits. They aren't made for little five-foot females with weeny chicken legs and monster rucksacks.
Still, I got through some of the most challenging terrain the wall follows — my way. There was somebody besides me who did sections of it on his hands and knees — a man in his eighties, back in 1798. But I think I may have set a record for something else. I didn't hear about anybody else who went down every hill on his seat.
I slept there in my brand new tent. I love it. Besides being extremely lightweight, entirely waterproof (unlike my last one), and erected in about a minute, it's the exact color of my favorite wedding dress. Even when camping, I can be feminine. My accessories are color-coordinated, and I always wear a neat white blouse with my wide hiking skirt. There's no need to look altogether disreputable. Weird is sufficient.
I believe in civilized eating, too. There aren't instant kosher camping meals, but you can live on instant soup packets, instant mashed potatoes, instant pudding, and instant coffee or tea. (Do you detect a pattern here?)
The big thrill of Hadrian's Wall is that the Romans who built it are themselves an ancient monument, while we Jews are still here, and I evilly walked a few steps on the wall to prove it.
In the final analysis, though, Hadrian's Wall proved too popular. There was always someone around to ask when I couldn't match my map to the landscape (about every twenty minutes). And the scenery — you wonder why the Romans bothered. Miles of nothing on both sides of the wall.
There's a place I've heard about, though, with both scenery and peace. It's a lake so remote that the Ministry of Defense hasn't discovered it. No sheep. No cuckoos. No roosters.
Unfortunately, also no public transport.
Henye Meyer forgot to turn in her biography before her current camping trip, and she doesn't carry a cell phone. Before she left, she did manage to submit the beautiful photographs that accompany her article.