Camping with kids. Why do I even bother?

I’ve just recovered from our family’s most recent 36-hour, self-inflicted sanity test. Sometimes it’s called camping. I’m seriously thinking about re-popularising the literal description of this hobby, where it shall once again be known as ‘making camp’. 

Unless you have as many holidays as a private-school teacher, your trip will probably be so short that you will actually spend more time planning your trip, packing for it, and erecting the blasted tent than you will spend enjoying the company of your family or your see-through polyester abode. And if you have kids, that ratio goes off the scale. Plus, don’t forget that if you, like me, decide to pack up your tent in the middle of a lightning and rain storm then you need to factor in an extra day or two to unpack, dry, clean out and re-pack all of your belongings once you come home. ‘Un-making camp’, you could say.

Now, if you’re one of those childless, van-owning free spirits who just grabs a book and a tray of sausages and sets off into the sunset at a minute’s notice, I don’t want to know about it. (Just send me a quick text when you’re leaving so you can pick me up on the way).

Seriously, what makes people pack their entire human world of shelter, food and loved ones into their cars, along with an extra jumper, but alas, never an extra airbed in case yours goes down in the night. Because it will go down.

This time we even packed our airbed already armed with the knowledge that it had A HOLE IN IT, with no plan as to how we would prevent it from deflating underneath us overnight, leaving us lying on small pockets of air and hard plastic-edged stretchers. 

Of course, anyone who goes camping thinking they will actually sleep more than 2 hours a night is deluded in the first place. What with keeping one ear open for torrential downpours, one eye open for intruders trying to sneak under the tarp and nick your bodyboard, one arm out the side because no grown person can fit their whole body comfortably in a sleeping bag, and one hand on the torch for when junior wakes you at 2.23am and needs to go to the toilet.

Why would anyone agree to go on a “holiday” if you can call it that, where you probably won’t have a shower for days, despite the fact that you are covered in more grit and sweat than at any other time. It’s not as if you have a good excuse for that level of squalor. You’re not climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. 

No, if you have children you will probably just reason that it’s more efficient to call a beach dip a shower, to have an extra rinse off after the pool, to not bother wetting another towel or attempting to dry yourself with that heavy, salt-encrusted thing you have hung on the nearest tree. The only redeeming quality that springs to mind in such circumstances is the thought of ample opportunities to do nothing but relax and unwind, since you won’t be wasting time showering or brushing your teeth. In defence of this most recent adventure, I did get to drink one cup of tea while sitting in a chair. Can’t say that happened last time.

Why do we inflict ourselves with the torture of camping? Are we drawn to the idea of it like a moth to a flame, knowing there’s not much chance we’ll survive but we still decide to do it anyway? If there are kids and work timetables involved, it’s hardly a split second decision. There’s plenty of time to back out, renege, change our minds. 

Several weeks of calendar perusing, several days of stuffing ropes into bags and canvas sleeping apparatus into cases they never fit into, several hours of meal planning and spooning condiments into tiny plastic containers. You could call it off at any time. Actually, if you’re up to the condiments phase you’ve probably already passed the point of no return.

I have such fond memories of going camping as a kid, when I wasn’t in charge of making sure the gas bottle was full or the guy ropes were strong enough to bear the weight of a waterlogged tarp in summer storm. But I remember one year, when we had grown a little older and my parents thought we knew enough about the whole process to go it alone next time, my mother issued a declaration loud and clear. “That’s it, I’m done with camping, I’m never coming again!”, she announced. Us kids thought she had lost her mind, who would say such a thing?

As I swept the sand off my scorching hot tarp in the backyard this week, I finally started to see the sense in her statement. Making camp is dirty, exhausting, stressful and time consuming. It can be risky, thanks to the weather and your own equipment.

But despite this, sometimes we feel the need to set ourselves little challenges and put obstacles in our own path where they could just as easily not exist. Even if these challenges are only in the form of folding-table-to-car-boot-size puzzles. Or how to batten down the hatches so your tent doesn’t leak while still ensuring enough air circulation so you don’t all suffocate to death overnight. 

It’s about seeing if you can meet those challenges, and also about letting your kids watch you do it. It’s about loving the fact that you hardly see a mirror for days, and playing more cards in a weekend than you do the entire rest of the year.

But hey, if these reasons aren’t enough to make you want to go crazy at a disposal store, there is one other added bonus. Owning a camp stove, having an esky full of ice and a few rechargeable lights comes in handy when you get home to find your entire village is in a blackout, after being hit by the very same lightning storm which just forced your early exit from the campground half an hour down the road.

Have we met? Micheal Connor :: Woodworker, luthier, toolmaker

Micheal Connor doesn’t do things half-heartedly. “If you want to build a bit of furniture you want to make sure it’s going to be here in 100 years”, he says.

A part-time woodworker, toolmaker and luthier, Micheal is fastidious about getting his designs right, spending time testing out his prototypes and making sure every component meets his high standards. Consequently, some of his projects have taken him a long time. 

“It’s the anti-Ikea furniture”, he says proudly.

Micheal and his wife, Sue, live on 7.5 acres in Corndale, and their home boasts the fruits of Micheal’s carpentry skills. The dining tables, dining chairs, sofa, raised flowerbeds, pitched roof of the patio are all carefully designed and made. 

Even the outdoor chairs we are sitting in are thoughtfully crafted prototypes, made with hinged backrests which adjust to whether you are sitting straight up eating lunch or leaning back loosening your belt buckle afterwards.  I notice there are only two of this kind, though. “One of these days I’ll make some more”, he says, “but I’ve got mine!”

After growing up and attending primary school in Clunes, Micheal worked in Queensland for a time before returning home. This led to doing some chainsaw milling with his brother. “Milling trees grew into an oversized hobby”, Micheal says, and he ended up keeping a lot of the timber.

Then, around the year 2000, after having worked as a self-employed electrician for some time, Micheal suddenly quit his trade to focus on woodworking.

While still working as a sparky, Micheal had started woodworking classes with renowned local cabinetmaker, Geoff Hannah, and built up his skills over several years. The decision to switch to woodworking full time came after he flipped the ride on mower and cut a tendon in his foot. 

“I had 6 weeks with my foot up on the table to think about life and the universe”, Micheal says. The approaching end of financial year seemed the perfect time to make the switch, so on June 30 he came home, stripped everything out of his van and stopped taking calls for electrical work.

Micheal has been building ukuleles now for about 5 years, after he first learnt the ropes from Booyong luthier, Les Dorahy. 

“He was my guidance to do it the right way, the traditional way”, says Micheal, whose own designs are sold under the name, Localele. Made in varying styles and timbers, Micheal shows off one particularly intricate, honey-coloured uke made with wood from a coastal banksia which he salvaged himself after a storm at Wategos Beach a few years ago.

Apart from his own projects, Micheal also works with his teaching partner, Allen McFarlen. Together they run ukulele-building workshops in Brisbane and Cairns several times a year. “It’s not beyond anyone to build one”, says Micheal, although there are certain techniques that you need to be shown along the way.

To see inside Micheal’s timber shed is to get an appreciation of his love for the material and his immeasurable knowledge of it. Blackwood, maple, silky oak, cedar, rosewood, gidgee, mahogany; he knows pretty much where each plank was milled and even sometimes where the tree was felled. 

In the machinery shed it’s the same story. Most of the large, second-hand machines have been bought locally and restored by Micheal, and he talks about their histories like mechanics talk about vintage cars.

Micheal’s arsenal of woodworking skills and techniques is always expanding, and he is also constantly fine-tuning his production methods. Whether it’s perfecting the construction of his tools or, as is the case recently, building his own CNC (computer numerical control) machine from scratch, he thrives on getting it just right. 

“He’s a perfectionist”, says Sue, with a knowing smile. And he’s not short on inspiration, either. “I’ve got a lifetime of ideas”, Micheal says.

Gig Review: The Waifs @ Bangalow A & I Hall

It had been a long time between drinks for me, since the last time I saw The Waifs in 2009. That night they played at the beautiful Bangalow A & I Hall, with its walls and ceilings covered in pressed tin reliefs, and its flat, open floor smooth from a century of gathering. Last night, the same band in the same venue brought back memories of that first magical night, the relaxed crowd milling around, finding their spot, chatting as they carry their eskys and wine bottles, waiting for the first act to come on stage. 

This time it's Mia Dyson, brandishing her vanilla icecream-coloured Tone Deluxe Standard, a guitar built by her father. She takes to the stage and a few people mutter, asking who she is. The rest of us are tuning our ears to her soulful, heavy vocals and emotional electric blues, instantly recognisable if you've ever heard any of her music. 

In the hot hall, though, without her band backing her as she revs up for each stinging solo, attentions start to drift and the chatter rises. She brings us back with the catchy When the Moment Comes, and I find myself singing along without knowing the lyrics. A little tune about spending time with a loved one before they pass away, She Can't Take the World, from her newest album, Idyllwild, is uplifting despite its subject. It showcases her gift for seeing right to the heart of a moment and condensing those feelings into one small package. 

On the ceiling there are no fans, and the small, hinged windows that run the length of the walls high above our heads are hardly able to provide enough ventilation for the now-crowded hall. Jackets are removed, brows wiped.

The Waifs have been together 23 years, and are touring their recently released 7th studio album, Beautiful You. They bounce onto the stage with the audience already at their whim.  Donna Simpson launches the performance with her familiar raw vocals, her relationship with the other four musicians so free and easy after all this time together. 

Guitarist and singer, Josh Cunningham, is hardly recognisable under a huge bushranger beard, but as soon as his voice emerges, smooth and effortless from beneath all the fuzz, you know it can't be anyone else. Within three songs he has changed guitars three times, from electric to acoustic, to electric ukulele and back again. 

Vikki Thorn’s skills on harmonica marry up beautifully, and barely a song passes which doesn't benefit from a bluesy burst inserted expertly between vocals and guitar solos. 

Mia Dyson jumps back on stage to join Josh in a "gospel shred off", jokes Vikki, and they lurch into their blues/gospel masterpiece, Temptation, filling the hall with a wall of harmonies and working their way to a dueling guitar call-and-response solo midway through. Josh’s Born to Love on banjo is country enough to avoid any comparison with the current crop of hipster urban hillbilly tunes, cemented by a stomping drum beat and anchored by the trio's close harmonies in all the right places. 

Part of The Waifs’ enduring appeal lies in their ability to create music as a close-knit group with a shared history, while still allowing each member to maintain their individual storytelling and songwriting styles.

With each new song, the emotion in the room changes, and I have a lump in my throat as Vikki and Josh begin to play Gillian, a song Josh wrote for his mother in his early days with the band. The love, the weight of parental responsibility, the honour of being someone's child all impossibly conveyed in a few simple lines. 

Donna sings her heart out for the title track from the new album, Beautiful You, which, she explains, was written as a plea to a friend struggling with addiction. The pain is palpable and her rawness leaves the crowd awkwardly searching for somewhere else to look.

Classics from their back catalogue, like London Still and Lighthouse, are as sweet as ever, with the sisters taking turns at the mic while Josh expertly recreates each line so that it pleasingly matches with the melodies burned into the minds of everyone present. 

At one point I notice I have started swaying in time without realising it, but the song ends just as I become aware. With my mind wandering and my feet tapping, the validity of our day-to-day struggles and the joys and pains of a simple life are sung with such conviction and honesty that you can't help but feel happy to be alive. 

An ode to moving house

The pitfalls of renting are many and varied. From not having the long-term stability of living in one place year after year, to constantly being at the whim of landlords’ decisions to increase rents, to not being able to hang your mirror in a spot where you can actually see your head and your body at the same time. There are upsides, like not being responsible for plumbing repairs or tree removal, but that about covers it.

Aside from property, most other assets actually depreciate over time. That new car you just bought will be worth half what you paid for it in just 2 years, your office photocopier worth a little less with each tax return. Yet year after year, renters find themselves paying more each week for what is essentially an older, more worn out version of the building where they eat, sleep and do laundry.