Resumo de A Wet Weekend - Edward Barnes

?Crypto fascists!? scorned my father as the lyrics to We?re Warriors for Jesus
wafted over our little south-Gower campsite. My wife and I smiled in recognition of
the presence of a joke but inwardly neither of us knew what a crypto-fascist was. The warriors had practically overtaken the site. Their white wizard hat tents populated one of the fields. Not content with camping alone they?d packed a generator and public address system; the tambourines were wired for sound.
We?d embarked on a camping weekend with my parents. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Being cooped up in a cramped awning hadn?t been accounted for.
The strange phenomenon of campsite culture surrounded us. Not so clear the reason why well adjusted individuals with perfectly comfortable, heated houses would chose to spend a weekend in a field. There were no conveniences; like television, nor necessities; like a dishwasher. We did, alas, have the benefit of the British weather which was unleashing her full power on us with a squally rain-stricken day. The sky looked biblical and we half expected to see hurricane debris float past our tent?s little plastic window. In fact the view from that little window was just a homogenous grey mass where before lay a scenic view of towering cliffs and blue seas, the distant ruin of Pennard castle adorned in curtains of rain.
?It rained like this the other day,? commented my mother, jovially. ?The dog and I were caught short on the beach. I managed to erect the beach umbrella with Bertie between my legs. The umbrella was right down over my head as the
rain sheeted off.?
She had a way with words, my mother. It certainly was sheeting off
in this instance too, as we sat in the inner sanctum of my parent?s trailer tent.
For all its inclemency, however, the strange campsite rituals continued
unabated. People wandered to and fro from the shower block like dishevelled
zombies wearing all their clothes, the un-dead of the homeless. The golf course across the way played host to groups of bedraggled golfers who meandered aimlessly, lost nomads on the fairways of South Wales. Irascible fathers of whingeing children put up tents and took down tents as equally irritable mothers berated their squawking offspring, the joys of the great outdoors.
In the background the whirring noise of car radios transmitted the cricket at Old Trafford. Rain had stopped play, leaving the commentators to think of things to talk about.
?You?ve got to hand it to the British,? commented my camp-wise mother.
?They are true holiday makers. They really know how to make a holiday.? And she
had a point. Rain had halted proceedings at Old Trafford, but here it was business as usual. The camping fraternity treated this downpour as a mere shower, it would pass.
As for the crypto-fascists, they were still singing. Though we all hoped the rain would short out their generator, God willing of course.

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