A Devon Holiday

It's amazing, and distressing at the time, to discover in the western world you can feel desperately removed and wanting the comforts of domestic heating, lighting, and something, anything that reminds you of being in a house. Deciding to go to Devon by train on a camping holiday in mid March was easy. It was doing it that proved difficult. Arriving the first night, I found myself inside a tent, while outside was nothing but a howling gale. The idea that I would be here for four more days terrified me. I really, really wanted to not be there.

The inclement weather was unrelenting in the morning. There was no car to warm myself in. I hobbled out of the tent in the clothes I had slept in - it was too cold to change. Although I was with three friends who repeatedly told me they loved and cared about me, I felt the need to leave for civilisation immediately. My train booking was unalterable; my mobile phone was out of signal. I did have next months rent in my bank account that I briefly considered spending on a taxi home.

Amidst biting rain and driving winds I staggered out of the forlorn looking campsite to a payphone and meekly called my sister. 'Please text me as much information as possible to do with getting out of Devon,' were the essence of my demands.

A series of woeful texts ensued, all with sad and miserable news about �200 flights, cancelled trains, and flooded roads. I felt stranded. Utterly and miserably alone. The final text was simple: ?Find a pub, get drunk, crawl into tent and sleep.?

No. I was going to fight for my salvation; not give in to the false promise of alcohol. Unlike my attitude to the weather forecast, the idea of topping all this crap with a hangover was enough for me to continue in my quest to get the hell out of Devon.

Yes, I was going to improve my situation and look for some Devon Hotels to stay in. Devon accommodation should be plentiful and easy to find. It?s where people go on holidays; the weather was appalling so there should be plenty of rooms available.

The trouble was I was already in the middle of nowhere, and barely had the energy to get anywhere or do anything because I was already consumed with rage at my stupid decision to be here in the first place.

I walked for a couple of hours before realising finding a Devon hotel and then paying for it would be difficult and regrettable. An hour later I arrived at a pub. It was warm and the beer tasted good. I felt good. My Devon accommodation in the form of a tent felt good. As I tipsily walked out into the softening winds, I remembered my friends back at the campsite. My sister?s kindly advice was beginning to make sense.