If there's one thing I love doing the morning after a good camp fire it's getting it alight again, without the aid of matches/chemicals/prayers, and then cooking breakfast on it. This morning's fire was no longer smouldering but the heat coming off the ashes gave me hope Joanna, gave me hope Joanna (Yes, Joanna was there).
I ferreted around for twigs and sticks and once assembled into a airy pile spent a good fifteen minutes poking, prodding and blowing. And then I tried to get the fire started.
Nothing beats the feeling when that spark ignites and the flames rise. Apart from when you put on your overcoat for the first time in winter and find you'd left a tenner in the pocket from last winter. Or, perhaps, the feeling you get when you think a pub is closed only to discover it is actually open.
I showboated the bacon into the pan and placed it triumphantly on top of my fledgling morning fire. It simmered gently taking quite a while to turn from translucent pink to off-brown. In fact it took an age to cook through. We could have motored into Cirencester, had a full English and driven back in the time it took to cook.
Of course, that's the point. Camping takes the rush out of everything. Especially cooking bacon. With time to spare I idly read the cooking instructions on the bacon's packaging. It had instructions for grilling and frying but nothing for slow cooking on last nights fire whilst listening to bird song.
If I one day become President that's the first thing I'll do. Make it law to put 'camping cooking' instructions on food labels. That and a complete rebrand for bacon itself. I'd change its name from 'bacon' to 'Simon'. I realise this may cause confusion if you happen to be camping with a Simon but, let's face it, most people aren't called Simon so on most occasions cooking Simon would not be an issue.
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