The approach to the camp didn’t seem promising. As hard as the Little SatNav That Could tried, it couldn’t find a route. The only route we could find looked like the service entrance to the Bat Cave. It was a twisting dirt road that, even at mid-day, was choked and dark by the overhanging trees. However, when we arrived at the camp we were greeted with a picture-postcard image of an All-American summer camp. This was especially surprising given that we were in Northern England. Kids ran around in red shorts and white T-Shirts with ‘Swellclay Camp’ emblazoned across it.
The manager came out of one of the cabins, presumably the office, and came over the greet us. He was a tall man, in too-short shorts that strained around broad rugby-player thighs and a white, dusty, polo-neck. A whistle bounced against what looked like it was once a ripped chest but now sagged through inevitability rather than neglect.
I’d barely closed the car door before he’d thrust out a broad, calloused hand and introduced himself.
‘Hi, I’m George, you must be Phil!’ he’d said, shaking my hand. Both his voice and grip had been softer than his frame threatened. ‘Please, this way. Cup of tea?’
I was ushered towards a small, wood-panelled office. Sat on a hard plastic chair outside was a girl of about 14 clutching a hot water bottle to her stomach. Cork boards were covered in inspirational posters about teamwork whilst groups of implausibly diverse friends espoused the evils of bullying. Strands of cobweb dangled from the ends of the halogen strip lights. The wooden walls were old but the furnishings were new. Awkwardly mismatched panels showed where the cabins had been retrofitted with modern conveniences. A tall man in his early twenties brought in our teas, both mugs clasped in one hand as he scanned a clipboard in the other.
I tried to keep my evaluation of the room off my face as George got started on his brew, but the cup paused at his chin. “Yea, it’s not the prettiest but it’s solid. It’ll do you fine through the winter”, he said without raising his eyes from his drink.
‘No, it’s fine. So long as it does the job, right?’ I replied, awkwardly trying on my best ‘talking to the brickie’ voice. ‘That approach road though, did we miss the main route?’
‘Nope that… That’s it. We’ve tried to get permission to widen it or strengthen it a few times but we’ve been flatly denied. Never even been properly listened to really, always fobbed off with some reason or another. We’ve had to fight tooth and nail for every little change we’ve made out here. Little things they tend be alright about but you even suggest summat that needs proper digging and…’ He trailed off.
I didn’t want to press him on it, especially as he seemed so enthusiastic to hear our proposal.
“So, why don’t you tell me about this ‘Winter Camp’ idea of yours?”
I gave him the pitch and he lapped it up. His head nodded animatedly at the right moments, he chuckled at the right jokes and I could see him writing down all the right figures and using them for all the right sums.
I asked him if he had any questions.
“Well, these numbers look good and, to be honest, if you guys are here running the heaters and that in the mid-winter you’d save us money on a caretaker. But, and I don’t want to discourage you as I say, what kind of activities do you think you’ll get done out here though? Most of our activities are on the lake but by November it’ll be iced over, and not skating thick neither”
“We have a strong focus on arts and crafts and other indoor activities, but would balance this with outdoors activities like climbing and abseiling. Forgive us for being presumptuous but we contacted your corporate office about the equipment you use out here and they are designated as winter-safe. Hiking would also be an option, given the local ar-” He cut me off.
