Caravan of Love

One problem when the weather is so atrocious is that there’s no one about to talk to. They are all wisely inside, leaving me alone except for the barking hellhound is nearly every Hungarian garden.

Luckily I came to my first Hungarian campsite and met Ferenc, the elderly owner, whose English was weak but still a damn sight better than my Hungarian. All I know is the word for “thank you” and that cheese sounds like “shite”.

Ferenc mixed his words up comically. When leaving the campsite he waved a hand at me and said, “hello”.

But I think he took to me and my soggy tent. I ended up staying two nights because the second day was a complete washout, but he wouldn’t let me stay in my tent the second night.

“You must stay in caravan,” he said, as the rain lashed down and a strong wind tugged at my pegs. “Not in tent. Not tonight.” And he more or less escorted to his little tin palace and may very well have saved my tent. During the night the wind got stronger and the rain heavier. In the morning the river running through the campsite had burst its banks.

And not only that, in the morning he delivered a basket containing a flask of hot tea and a little pot of honey to sweeten it. Thank you, Ferenc, and hello!

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