When we were organising camping, Bel insisted we use her tent that “fit 27 year seveners” inside. We were skeptical, but said yes because their was no better option. When we got there and it was time to set up, Bel brought out three huge bags, sporting a sort of proud smile. “Lets put it here” we said, pointing to a dainty nook under the branches of some tree with bright orange berries. “No, it won’t fit. The tent will be too tall”. Given, it was a small-ish tree, but surely she was exaggerating. What kind of tent doesn’t fit under a tree?
I asked her.
"What kind of tent doesn’t fit under a tree?"
She answered me by unfurling one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever known anyone to own. The tent was white, and dotted with a timely grub it had earned over its years. It was at least four metres tall, and mainly roof that was split off in six or eight panels. It was like a modest circus tent.
Later, after the sun went down and we’d snuggled into (our roomie) beds with a few candles on, Bel told us about how she had travelled around with her family when she was a child, setting this tent up every time they stopped. Like a gypsie. The tent was one of the only thing that survived the bush fire they were caught in, so it is now, for all purposes, her childhood home.