Who would be brave enough, or stupid enough, to camp overnight, in the pouring rain, in January? *looks askance at Roz*
Well, that would be us. Partly to be there for deliveries in the morning, and partly to see if we could.
One of the distinguishing features of Nant-y-Meillion is the mud. Thick, sticky, clay-y mud. Proper welly-sucking mud that gets worse every time you walk through it. Mud that seeps up underneath your tent like some kind of disgusting gravy and makes you wonder if both you and your camp bed might have disappeared into it by morning leaving just the tip of your nose poking out as the only evidence that you were ever here…
But it’s not windy. Except when it is, and the gusts roar over the brow of the hill like an express train and the rain hammers against the roof of the tent and the foxes decide that the wet, wild night is the perfect time for some wet’n’wild fox-sex and announce it to the world with a sound that’s somewhere between a police siren and a baby screaming.
But in the tent it was warm and dry and full of duvet, and it was like being inside a snuggly warm cloud, one that we didn’t really want to leave despite the imminent delivery and the lure of bacon from a nearby cafe.
So we survived, nobody drowned in the mud, we got to experience the local wildlife AND we got our fry up in the civilised environs of Ammanford.
Would I do it again? Bearing in mind that I actively dislike any kind of camping that doesn’t feature an en-suite and isn’t done in a hotel, yes I would (and will probably have to, though the sooner we get Abby up to Nanty the better). It was certainly an experience, and it gave me a different view of our sprawling new purchase.