I love camps. I love everything about them. You probably know the type of camp I mean: they're tiny, they all have the exact same wonderful smell, and they're filled with a colourful array of old and kitschy, time-worn and well-loved odds and ends. You can, as nearly as I think is possible on this earth, sense the people who have relaxed and spent time together with friends and family. The space feels real. Like all of the important conversations in life happened around the table, the campfire and with tea on the porch. Kids grew up there, with the time and freedom to play and make the very best kinds of memories. And that seems like something to be respected, even as a visitor.
I posted about a particular favourite camp last summer. (Just by looking at the pictures, I can smell the lake.) After a cold, dark, grey April week, visting another camp was a lovely reminder that summer will be here again.