Camping for Sissies
I think some of my Wisco friends might riot when they hear that I am intrigued by glamping (4-star camping with heated floors, private bathrooms, and room service). I will probably be excommunicated and stripped of my cow-milking trophy. You see, I was raised in farm country where we camped in open fields of cows with nothing but sleeping bags, pie irons, and flint. I repelled off of my first cliff when I was 11, and I can catch fish with my bare hands (no I can’t).
It has been a long, long time since I’ve been camping, but, in theory, I love the idea. You know what makes me love the idea even more? Butlers.
So if, like me, Wednesday is when you start fantasizing about running away from life, please enjoy a few minutes of glamping travel porn. Champagne and tube sock not included.
Monmouthshire, here I come! (I bet they don’t even make you use leaves for toilet paper. My parents were sadists.)