The Craic was Good
May. 27th, 2018 12:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947On and on, over the hill to Ardglass.
In the jam jar, autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through.
Stopping off at Ardglass for a couple of jars of
Mussels and some potted herring in case
We get famished before dinner.
On and on, over the hill – and the craic is good.
Heading towards Coney Island
I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine;
All the time going to Coney Island I’m thinking,
“Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time”.
(Coney Island: Van Morrison – 1989)
“Hey, John”, I exclaimed as I answered my cell phone, seeing that my friend John O’Riley was calling.
“Hey,” he barked back. “Is this a good time to talk?”
“Sure,” I replied, wondering what had prompted this call, since we had just played golf together the week before. “What’s up?” I asked curiously.
“Greg asked me to call you,” he said. “He wants me to convince you to come camping with us next week, since you already turned him down. You interested in going camping with us?” He asked.
I burst out laughing in unexpected surprise. It was a combination of prolonged chuckles and bellowing amazement at this ludicrous strategy. “You’re kidding,” I finally gasped. “Greg actually wants you to talk me into going camping? I can’t believe it. I told him ‘no’. I hate camping! I’m too old to camp. No way I’m sleeping in a tent, having to wake up and go outside two or three times a night to pee”.
“I have the same problem”, John countered, “but there is a solution for it.”
John’s dogged optimism and confidence at dismissing all my excuses kept me smiling in delight and laughter. John wouldn’t give up. Somehow managing not to nag, he offered a friendly solution or compromise to every difficulty I raised.
“Do you have a sleeping bag?” He asked
“Yes, but I don’t have a tent”, I argued.
“I’ll have a tent for you,” he countered.
“I don’t have an air mattress,” I grumbled. “I can’t sleep on the ground.”
“Greg will bring one you can use,” he replied.
Somehow John’s reasonable and friendly persistence kept me smiling and receptive.
“Look,” I said, bringing the argument to a close, “believe it our not, I’m sort of inclined to try it. Let me check with Kathy first. I need to see her calendar to make sure we have no commitments on those dates.”
I called my organizing friend Greg Ryan back the following night and confirmed that I was joining him on his trip, and finally got around to asking him where we were going.
You got to love Greg. He loves driving, traveling, cooking, camping, and judging BBQ contests in the most exotic locations. He’s also reliable about getting friends and people to join him. Apart from our periodic group-planned camping and mule packing trips to Big Sur and Mammoth, I remember first hearing of Greg’s spontaneous travels in high school and during our college days, when he would, seemingly, go on road trips and camping trips at the spur of the moment. I would hear about these trips later, when he and his usual traveling companion, John, would talk about their experiences on their return. Greg, it appeared, was the organizer and driver, and he could take a suggested idea, event, or locale, and turn it into an impromptu travel adventure. At some point I finally tired of being left out and feeling envious of these trips, and I begged him to always invite me, even if I, more than occasionally, turned him down. He said he would then, and he has kept his promise to this day.
I’ve previously written of my three high school friends and our traveling adventures (see tag: amigos). They are Greg, and the brothers, Jim and John. On this trip we initially rendezvoused at John’s home in Camarillo, CA, on Wednesday, May 16th, with Greg driving up from San Diego, and picking Jim up in Lakewood. Since John and Greg were bringing up all of the heavy and bulky camp gear and firewood, we took two vehicles. Jim accompanied Greg in his SUV and I rode shotgun with John in his truck. Although we departed at the same time, we quickly lost sight of each other on the road, owing to Greg’s lead-footed driving, and John’s reluctance to drive faster than the speed limit. In the past, this tortoise-like velocity used to irritate me, but I finally accepted it as a minor inconvenience if he chose to drive. We traveled the first 200 miles north on Highway 101, through Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, and Paso Robles, arriving at Greenfield, a small town between Salinas and King City, in the Salinas Valley at about 3:00 pm. There we went west on Elm Street until it connected to Arroyo Seco Road, which paralleled the Arroyo Seco River. It was along this road that we discovered there was no cellular service in the area, rendering our mobile phones useless, and making it impossible to communicate with Greg and Jim. None of us knew anything about Arroyo Seco Campground or its layout. Greg found it on a map when he wasn’t able to get a reservation at Big Sur. Although Arroyo Seco is part of the Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, it is located on its eastern extremity, in the Ventana Wilderness, near the Carmel Valley. With no sight of Greg or Jim at the camp entrance, we drove into the campground, hiding our growing sense of unease, and started searching, finally encountering a Camp Host near the main facilities who directed us further into the park. Along the road another host pointed us to our reserved campsite where we met up with our friends.
Inspecting the circuit of reserved, but still vacant, campsites in our location, ours was by far the best. We had a canopy of three towering trees, two fire pits, a wooden picnic table, and strategically located boulders and tree trunks, on which we could sit, recline, or balance objects and tools. The site was at a corner of two sloping hills, one dropping quickly to a river below, and the other, gently sloping towards a marshy lake. Standing at the ridge above the river, we could marvel at the overpowering sight of an enormous green mountain rising up from the river below. It would act as our welcoming morning and evening sentinel for the entire trip. After exploring the grounds, the bathroom and water facilities, and shaking off the stiffness from our long car rides, we finally got around to unloading our tools, cargo, and equipment, and began setting up camp and our tents.
I should confess that of the four of us, only Greg and John are the REAL campers and cooks. They have the gear, supplies, equipment, tools, and utensils to make the camping experience possible and bearable. Although Jim loves to camp, and is always willing to go (especially if it is to Big Sur), bringing along his portable CD player and music, he is totally dependent on Greg and John for the essentials. Me? I’m the tourist in the group. I come along to be guided, take photos, record memories, and try being as helpful as possible. Jim and I are basically supernumeraries on camping trips, ready assistants and helpers, and providers of beer, wine, and snacks, but dependent on the two chiefs and cooks. So with no embarrassment or shame we borrowed the supplies and gear we needed to set up our camp chairs and tents, and then asked what was on the menu. John was handling our first dinner with beef stew and French bread, and then egg, bacon, and hash brown potato burritos for breakfast. Greg was grilling street tacos and refried beans for our last supper on Thursday night.
The one unique quality of all our road-trips and camping excursions is the lack of a fixed itinerary or plan before we set off. The destination is the mission. Once we arrive, what we do, or where we go, is never fixed. Even though some of us may have an idea or two to volunteer, we make it up as we go along. Impromptu traveling you might call it. In the surrounding darkness of our first evening, while sitting near the warm and burning log fire, we finally started pitching ideas for the following day, supporting some and criticizing others. John had brought along playing cards and poker chips to while away the time in camp, but Jim wanted to drive a short distance west on Arroyo Seco Road, then double back toward the Salinas Valley, and perhaps stopping at a nearby mission and a vineyard or two, before returning to camp. The only suggestion I made was my desire to drive beyond Arroyo Seco Road, continuing west on the Carmel Valley Road to Carmel. I wanted to see the entire Carmel Valley, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Pastures of Heaven that John Steinbeck wrote about in the 1930’s. I first heard of the Pastures of Heaven from Jim and Wayne Wilson, another friend from high school, on one of our early camping trips to Big Sur during college. On the day we were returning home, Jim suggested a detour along the Carmel Valley Road to see if we could spot one of these heavenly pastures. We didn’t drive too far in, and quickly made a brief stop by a pretty grass field, dotted with flowers. But I always wondered what lay beyond, deeper into the Carmel Valley. Finally, without having expressed any ideas or suggestions, Greg brought the discussion to a close by saying that he would drive – thereby making himself the final arbiter of our explorations on the following day.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of egg burritos and coffee, we set off along the Arroyo Seco Road finally coming to the Carmel Valley turnoff. Although Jim suggested turning back at that point, Greg countered with the final itinerary. We would continue through the valley to Carmel, stopping at a store there for some extra provisions, and then take Highway 1 north to Monterey, and cross over Highway 68 back to the Salinas Valley where we could search for a winery and Mission. I thought it was a delightful compromise for Jim and me, and I would finally get a chance to see the entire length of Carmel Valley and search for the Pastures of Heaven.
It is in the prologue to a collection of short stories titled The Pastures of Heaven, that John Steinbeck tells the story of a group of 20 converted Indians who abandoned the Catholic mission they were building in Carmel. A Spanish corporal and a squad of horsemen chase the runaways into the Carmel Valley and through the mountains beyond. After a week of searching, the corporal finally captures the runaway Indians and sets off to return to the Carmel Mission. On the journey back, while hunting a deer, the corporal arrives at a ridge where he has an astonishing view of a fertile valley below. The beauty and serenity of the wondrous valley stagger him, and he quotes Psalm 23: "Holy Mother! he whispered. Here are the green pastures of Heaven to which our Lord leadeth us". From that day on, the corporal dreamt of returning and retiring to this valley, which he dubbed "Las Pasturas del Cielo". I’m not sure if we ever came upon these same pastures on our ride through the Carmel Valley, but the fields, meadows, and forests along the way were truly staggering in their beauty and fertility. I snapped countless photos of the scenery, always wishing they would do justice to the alluring vistas.
On our way back to camp, having stopped briefly in Carmel and at a spot overlooking Monterey and the Bay beyond the city, we had the chance to really appreciate the authentic beauty of the Salinas Valley. Previously, I’d only seen the Valley from a car, speeding along Highway 101. However, on the route Jim suggested, and Greg took, we drove along the River Road, closely paralleling the Salinas River. For the first time I had an up close view of the vast fields of lettuce, broccoli, and strawberries carpeting both sides of the river, and could marvel at the countless fruitful vineyards garlanding the eastern slopes of the Santa Lucia and Gabilan mountains. This was capped off with a stop at the Hahn Vineyard, whose Tasting Room porch provided a vast panoramic vista of the entire Salinas Valley. We culminated this scenic tour with quick stop at the Soledad Mission, before finally returning to camp for an afternoon of card playing.
A camping trip isn’t a camping trip without evenings under the stars with music, a bonfire keeping you warm and comfortable, and endless conversation with wine or fine Irish whiskey. It was during our first night in camp, with Van Morrison’s Coney Island playing in the background that Jim asked if we knew what the lyrics “and the craic is good” meant. I’d always assumed Morrison was alluding to crack cocaine, which he must have brought along on his trip to Coney Island. So I was delighted to learn from Jim and Greg that Morrison was actually using the Irish term craic, which meant news, gossip, stories, and enjoyable conversation. This revelation seemed very timely to me because it is the “craic”, or conversations, during these trips that I love the most. It is the chance for old friends to catch up on the events in our lives, and find out how we are doing, and to argue over differing memories of places, times, and events. I’ve also used these opportunities to ask very personal, and possibly embarrassing questions, of my longtime friends – a tendency they sometimes find annoying. On the first night of our camping trip, after the natural flow of conversation had temporarily ceased, I asked a question that had puzzled me for a long time. “When was the first time each of us met one another?” I suppose I asked that question with an assumption that each of us would reveal one significant scene, event, or a particular moment in our life when we recognized each other as a friend. At least that is what happens in movies, and in novels – friendships being bonded during a memorable moment. Sadly, real life doesn’t always follow a script, because none of us could come up with one moment or event that initiated and cemented our almost lifetime friendships. We could identify common interests, activities, classes, and a connected network of other acquaintances and friends in high school – but no one event that created our current friendships. It was disappointing in one way, but natural in another. I suppose most friendships, like all human relationships, EVOLVE and grow. Friendships that manifest themselves in a startling epiphany might happen, of course, but they must be more rare that I thought.
On our last night around the fire, looking up periodically to absorb the glorious vastness of the starry heavens, I asked another personal question that I assumed was benign. Of course, the immediate response was a general groan of “Oh God, here we go again”. Although everyone answered, some chose not to elaborate, refusing to share more information. Unfortunately, instead of dropping the matter, I persisted by changing the issue from merely answering my question to explaining their refusal to elaborate – and a heated argument ensued. The pointless bickering continued for a while, until a predictable explosion of anger occurred. That ended the discussion and someone changed the topic. But I was left with the bitter after-taste of disillusionment – not in my friends’ unwillingness to share, but in my own selfish arrogance in demanding more. These are men I have known for over 50 years, and friends I love. But that night I’d failed the essential test of true friendship by not accepting them for who they are, and wanting them to be more like me. The question I had asked was an easy one for me to answer and share, but I’d failed to understand the personal and emotional boundaries of my friends. If these guys can accept the annoyance of my personal questions, I can accept whatever they wish to share. So, overall, I would judge this camping experience a success, even though the nights were colder than they had to be because I delayed putting on my tent canopy until the second day. As Van Morrison said, “the craic was good”, and I learned something about asking nosey questions, and accepting the personal boundaries of friends.
In the jam jar, autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through.
Stopping off at Ardglass for a couple of jars of
Mussels and some potted herring in case
We get famished before dinner.
On and on, over the hill – and the craic is good.
Heading towards Coney Island
I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine;
All the time going to Coney Island I’m thinking,
“Wouldn’t it be great if it was like this all the time”.
(Coney Island: Van Morrison – 1989)
“Hey, John”, I exclaimed as I answered my cell phone, seeing that my friend John O’Riley was calling.
“Hey,” he barked back. “Is this a good time to talk?”
“Sure,” I replied, wondering what had prompted this call, since we had just played golf together the week before. “What’s up?” I asked curiously.
“Greg asked me to call you,” he said. “He wants me to convince you to come camping with us next week, since you already turned him down. You interested in going camping with us?” He asked.
I burst out laughing in unexpected surprise. It was a combination of prolonged chuckles and bellowing amazement at this ludicrous strategy. “You’re kidding,” I finally gasped. “Greg actually wants you to talk me into going camping? I can’t believe it. I told him ‘no’. I hate camping! I’m too old to camp. No way I’m sleeping in a tent, having to wake up and go outside two or three times a night to pee”.
“I have the same problem”, John countered, “but there is a solution for it.”
John’s dogged optimism and confidence at dismissing all my excuses kept me smiling in delight and laughter. John wouldn’t give up. Somehow managing not to nag, he offered a friendly solution or compromise to every difficulty I raised.
“Do you have a sleeping bag?” He asked
“Yes, but I don’t have a tent”, I argued.
“I’ll have a tent for you,” he countered.
“I don’t have an air mattress,” I grumbled. “I can’t sleep on the ground.”
“Greg will bring one you can use,” he replied.
Somehow John’s reasonable and friendly persistence kept me smiling and receptive.
“Look,” I said, bringing the argument to a close, “believe it our not, I’m sort of inclined to try it. Let me check with Kathy first. I need to see her calendar to make sure we have no commitments on those dates.”
I called my organizing friend Greg Ryan back the following night and confirmed that I was joining him on his trip, and finally got around to asking him where we were going.
You got to love Greg. He loves driving, traveling, cooking, camping, and judging BBQ contests in the most exotic locations. He’s also reliable about getting friends and people to join him. Apart from our periodic group-planned camping and mule packing trips to Big Sur and Mammoth, I remember first hearing of Greg’s spontaneous travels in high school and during our college days, when he would, seemingly, go on road trips and camping trips at the spur of the moment. I would hear about these trips later, when he and his usual traveling companion, John, would talk about their experiences on their return. Greg, it appeared, was the organizer and driver, and he could take a suggested idea, event, or locale, and turn it into an impromptu travel adventure. At some point I finally tired of being left out and feeling envious of these trips, and I begged him to always invite me, even if I, more than occasionally, turned him down. He said he would then, and he has kept his promise to this day.
I’ve previously written of my three high school friends and our traveling adventures (see tag: amigos). They are Greg, and the brothers, Jim and John. On this trip we initially rendezvoused at John’s home in Camarillo, CA, on Wednesday, May 16th, with Greg driving up from San Diego, and picking Jim up in Lakewood. Since John and Greg were bringing up all of the heavy and bulky camp gear and firewood, we took two vehicles. Jim accompanied Greg in his SUV and I rode shotgun with John in his truck. Although we departed at the same time, we quickly lost sight of each other on the road, owing to Greg’s lead-footed driving, and John’s reluctance to drive faster than the speed limit. In the past, this tortoise-like velocity used to irritate me, but I finally accepted it as a minor inconvenience if he chose to drive. We traveled the first 200 miles north on Highway 101, through Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, and Paso Robles, arriving at Greenfield, a small town between Salinas and King City, in the Salinas Valley at about 3:00 pm. There we went west on Elm Street until it connected to Arroyo Seco Road, which paralleled the Arroyo Seco River. It was along this road that we discovered there was no cellular service in the area, rendering our mobile phones useless, and making it impossible to communicate with Greg and Jim. None of us knew anything about Arroyo Seco Campground or its layout. Greg found it on a map when he wasn’t able to get a reservation at Big Sur. Although Arroyo Seco is part of the Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, it is located on its eastern extremity, in the Ventana Wilderness, near the Carmel Valley. With no sight of Greg or Jim at the camp entrance, we drove into the campground, hiding our growing sense of unease, and started searching, finally encountering a Camp Host near the main facilities who directed us further into the park. Along the road another host pointed us to our reserved campsite where we met up with our friends.
Inspecting the circuit of reserved, but still vacant, campsites in our location, ours was by far the best. We had a canopy of three towering trees, two fire pits, a wooden picnic table, and strategically located boulders and tree trunks, on which we could sit, recline, or balance objects and tools. The site was at a corner of two sloping hills, one dropping quickly to a river below, and the other, gently sloping towards a marshy lake. Standing at the ridge above the river, we could marvel at the overpowering sight of an enormous green mountain rising up from the river below. It would act as our welcoming morning and evening sentinel for the entire trip. After exploring the grounds, the bathroom and water facilities, and shaking off the stiffness from our long car rides, we finally got around to unloading our tools, cargo, and equipment, and began setting up camp and our tents.
I should confess that of the four of us, only Greg and John are the REAL campers and cooks. They have the gear, supplies, equipment, tools, and utensils to make the camping experience possible and bearable. Although Jim loves to camp, and is always willing to go (especially if it is to Big Sur), bringing along his portable CD player and music, he is totally dependent on Greg and John for the essentials. Me? I’m the tourist in the group. I come along to be guided, take photos, record memories, and try being as helpful as possible. Jim and I are basically supernumeraries on camping trips, ready assistants and helpers, and providers of beer, wine, and snacks, but dependent on the two chiefs and cooks. So with no embarrassment or shame we borrowed the supplies and gear we needed to set up our camp chairs and tents, and then asked what was on the menu. John was handling our first dinner with beef stew and French bread, and then egg, bacon, and hash brown potato burritos for breakfast. Greg was grilling street tacos and refried beans for our last supper on Thursday night.
The one unique quality of all our road-trips and camping excursions is the lack of a fixed itinerary or plan before we set off. The destination is the mission. Once we arrive, what we do, or where we go, is never fixed. Even though some of us may have an idea or two to volunteer, we make it up as we go along. Impromptu traveling you might call it. In the surrounding darkness of our first evening, while sitting near the warm and burning log fire, we finally started pitching ideas for the following day, supporting some and criticizing others. John had brought along playing cards and poker chips to while away the time in camp, but Jim wanted to drive a short distance west on Arroyo Seco Road, then double back toward the Salinas Valley, and perhaps stopping at a nearby mission and a vineyard or two, before returning to camp. The only suggestion I made was my desire to drive beyond Arroyo Seco Road, continuing west on the Carmel Valley Road to Carmel. I wanted to see the entire Carmel Valley, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Pastures of Heaven that John Steinbeck wrote about in the 1930’s. I first heard of the Pastures of Heaven from Jim and Wayne Wilson, another friend from high school, on one of our early camping trips to Big Sur during college. On the day we were returning home, Jim suggested a detour along the Carmel Valley Road to see if we could spot one of these heavenly pastures. We didn’t drive too far in, and quickly made a brief stop by a pretty grass field, dotted with flowers. But I always wondered what lay beyond, deeper into the Carmel Valley. Finally, without having expressed any ideas or suggestions, Greg brought the discussion to a close by saying that he would drive – thereby making himself the final arbiter of our explorations on the following day.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of egg burritos and coffee, we set off along the Arroyo Seco Road finally coming to the Carmel Valley turnoff. Although Jim suggested turning back at that point, Greg countered with the final itinerary. We would continue through the valley to Carmel, stopping at a store there for some extra provisions, and then take Highway 1 north to Monterey, and cross over Highway 68 back to the Salinas Valley where we could search for a winery and Mission. I thought it was a delightful compromise for Jim and me, and I would finally get a chance to see the entire length of Carmel Valley and search for the Pastures of Heaven.
It is in the prologue to a collection of short stories titled The Pastures of Heaven, that John Steinbeck tells the story of a group of 20 converted Indians who abandoned the Catholic mission they were building in Carmel. A Spanish corporal and a squad of horsemen chase the runaways into the Carmel Valley and through the mountains beyond. After a week of searching, the corporal finally captures the runaway Indians and sets off to return to the Carmel Mission. On the journey back, while hunting a deer, the corporal arrives at a ridge where he has an astonishing view of a fertile valley below. The beauty and serenity of the wondrous valley stagger him, and he quotes Psalm 23: "Holy Mother! he whispered. Here are the green pastures of Heaven to which our Lord leadeth us". From that day on, the corporal dreamt of returning and retiring to this valley, which he dubbed "Las Pasturas del Cielo". I’m not sure if we ever came upon these same pastures on our ride through the Carmel Valley, but the fields, meadows, and forests along the way were truly staggering in their beauty and fertility. I snapped countless photos of the scenery, always wishing they would do justice to the alluring vistas.
On our way back to camp, having stopped briefly in Carmel and at a spot overlooking Monterey and the Bay beyond the city, we had the chance to really appreciate the authentic beauty of the Salinas Valley. Previously, I’d only seen the Valley from a car, speeding along Highway 101. However, on the route Jim suggested, and Greg took, we drove along the River Road, closely paralleling the Salinas River. For the first time I had an up close view of the vast fields of lettuce, broccoli, and strawberries carpeting both sides of the river, and could marvel at the countless fruitful vineyards garlanding the eastern slopes of the Santa Lucia and Gabilan mountains. This was capped off with a stop at the Hahn Vineyard, whose Tasting Room porch provided a vast panoramic vista of the entire Salinas Valley. We culminated this scenic tour with quick stop at the Soledad Mission, before finally returning to camp for an afternoon of card playing.
A camping trip isn’t a camping trip without evenings under the stars with music, a bonfire keeping you warm and comfortable, and endless conversation with wine or fine Irish whiskey. It was during our first night in camp, with Van Morrison’s Coney Island playing in the background that Jim asked if we knew what the lyrics “and the craic is good” meant. I’d always assumed Morrison was alluding to crack cocaine, which he must have brought along on his trip to Coney Island. So I was delighted to learn from Jim and Greg that Morrison was actually using the Irish term craic, which meant news, gossip, stories, and enjoyable conversation. This revelation seemed very timely to me because it is the “craic”, or conversations, during these trips that I love the most. It is the chance for old friends to catch up on the events in our lives, and find out how we are doing, and to argue over differing memories of places, times, and events. I’ve also used these opportunities to ask very personal, and possibly embarrassing questions, of my longtime friends – a tendency they sometimes find annoying. On the first night of our camping trip, after the natural flow of conversation had temporarily ceased, I asked a question that had puzzled me for a long time. “When was the first time each of us met one another?” I suppose I asked that question with an assumption that each of us would reveal one significant scene, event, or a particular moment in our life when we recognized each other as a friend. At least that is what happens in movies, and in novels – friendships being bonded during a memorable moment. Sadly, real life doesn’t always follow a script, because none of us could come up with one moment or event that initiated and cemented our almost lifetime friendships. We could identify common interests, activities, classes, and a connected network of other acquaintances and friends in high school – but no one event that created our current friendships. It was disappointing in one way, but natural in another. I suppose most friendships, like all human relationships, EVOLVE and grow. Friendships that manifest themselves in a startling epiphany might happen, of course, but they must be more rare that I thought.
On our last night around the fire, looking up periodically to absorb the glorious vastness of the starry heavens, I asked another personal question that I assumed was benign. Of course, the immediate response was a general groan of “Oh God, here we go again”. Although everyone answered, some chose not to elaborate, refusing to share more information. Unfortunately, instead of dropping the matter, I persisted by changing the issue from merely answering my question to explaining their refusal to elaborate – and a heated argument ensued. The pointless bickering continued for a while, until a predictable explosion of anger occurred. That ended the discussion and someone changed the topic. But I was left with the bitter after-taste of disillusionment – not in my friends’ unwillingness to share, but in my own selfish arrogance in demanding more. These are men I have known for over 50 years, and friends I love. But that night I’d failed the essential test of true friendship by not accepting them for who they are, and wanting them to be more like me. The question I had asked was an easy one for me to answer and share, but I’d failed to understand the personal and emotional boundaries of my friends. If these guys can accept the annoyance of my personal questions, I can accept whatever they wish to share. So, overall, I would judge this camping experience a success, even though the nights were colder than they had to be because I delayed putting on my tent canopy until the second day. As Van Morrison said, “the craic was good”, and I learned something about asking nosey questions, and accepting the personal boundaries of friends.
