Swallows and Amazons: a review

As part of my attempt to cope with the hopefully final months of lockdown, and also be generally happy, I’ve been making more of a point of getting myself “fun books” from the library when I do my weekly school-books run.  

So I read the classic and beloved Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome.  I wish I could say I unequivocally loved it.  And I did enjoy it, and added the sequel to my TBR list.  But I didn’t completely love it.  I spent the first two thirds of the book equal parts inspired; and then, when Jason wouldn’t acquiesce to my bright idea to go tent camping when it was forty degrees overnight, irrationally insisting that I would not enjoy it; annoyed by the fictional Walker children, whose idyllic experience camping on a small island all summer is the gist of the story.

Let us briefly review the real-life experiences of the Miller family’s camping trips.

There was the memorable time when our tent morphed into a running flood overnight and practically drowned us, but we survived long enough for Caleb to stick his hand in a bees’ nest the following day.

There was the time Jason and I camped when I was newly pregnant with Jeddy and incredibly nauseous at all hours, and Jason cooked little smokies over the fire which nearly made me barf, and later ordered a full Thanksgiving dinner at the lodge which he tucked into with enthusiasm while I gasped for fresh air at the window.  That was the same trip where we experienced fog thicker than I have ever seen in my life, and we got lost driving the half mile back from the lodge because we couldn’t see four feet ahead.  That trip made such an impression that I got nauseous by association on foggy days for a few years afterwards.

Then there was that time we camped as newlyweds and brought our bikes and Jason’s tire popped en route to the campground and it was so stressful that I suffered chest pains about which I afterwards consulted a doctor.

There was the time we accidentally arrived after dark and couldn’t figure out how to set up our tents in the dark and we were trying not to lose our very small children at the same time we were erecting shelter in the lustrous glow of our car’s headlights, later to lie in our nylon tent listening to an unknown creature snuffling just outside.

On my most recent camping trip wherein my offspring was sleeping exposed in a hammock, a bear rummaged through our site in the middle of the night.

Once years ago we took baby Jeddy camping en route to the beach, and after fighting him tooth and nail for hours to get him to sleep, a wild thunderstorm broke overhead and we were equally terrified of lightning striking us, trees falling on us, and the baby waking back up.

There was a noteworthy trip when Jason left the tent in the middle of the night to use the campground facilities, and upon emerging from the well-lit building, realized that all else was pitch dark and he was unable to find his way back to the correct tent and so spent the night on the bathroom floor.

Hired gardeners planting flowers in my window box.

Oh, and there was the time we camped while Jeddy was potty training, and we woke him to use the potty in the tent, in the dark, and he still wet the bed.  Slash sleeping bag.  Slash tent that we were all sharing.

Good times.

Oh, yes, there was that one time it didn’t rain and bears didn’t come and the sun shone, hallelujah, amen.

In contrast, let us review the experience of the Walker children in Swallows and Amazons, of whom the eldest is no more than 13 years old, who wilderness camp all summer:  

They know how to catch and clean fish, sail a boat, cook over a fire, navigate by stars, and hoot like an owl, even though they haven’t all yet learned to swim.  Also they have the good will of the milk-supplying farmer, strangers in the woods, all the villagers round about, the grumpy old man (even after children burned the cabin of his houseboat by lighting off firecrackers on it), and their own mother.

They don’t get bitten by bears, wolves, snakes, ticks, fish, or even mosquitos.  Their wood is never too wet to light.  They sleep soundly on makeshift mattresses on the ground under tents fashioned from a sheet of canvas draped over a stick.  They don’t have allergies.  Nor do they have summer jobs or chores around the house.  They don’t get sunburned.

Excuse me if I struggle to suspend my disbelief—or wish for a thunderstorm to drive a herd of ravenous bears into the Walker camp.  Let’s see how they competently handle that.

At least, that was how I felt after Jason didn’t let me go camping in forty degrees.  

What a spoilsport.  I already know how to swim and hoot like an owl; what could possibly go wrong?