I'm off to a 'Stag' weekend (four days in all) soon, in a beautiful part of the Peak District, and there will be 13 guys there in all. I'll be the oldest, by a decade (my brother, the groom, is 12 years younger than me.) But there will also be a few of my cousins there. Now this little Irish pack have all pretty much grown up together with me, and most of the more notable get-togethers of the last fifteen years have entailed us all camping out in a forest, having a few (OK a lot) of beers, and lighting campfires, whittling wood, and basically having a good time. I hasten to add, that while a couple of the group are non-bushy, most of them are of the Mears state of mind. We leave our campsites spotless, love carving meaninglessly on wood, and pretty much respect the forest to a degree which leaves most people scratching their head. A discarded beer-can produces red-faced fury. So they're not hooligans.
An aside: A few years ago we we encamped thus by the river Bann, all eight of us, and I was in those days enamoured of the old British Army Machete, which I used to chop (dead) wood. I was chopping away happily in the edge of the forest, right on the bank of the river, while a bunch of guys rode a motorboat up and down, up and down at full speed past me. Again. And again.
There are otters there. And voles. The wake these guys were producing was about two foot high. It really ticked me off, so I straightened and politely raised my voice a little and asked them to desist. (All right - I bellowed at them to **** the hell off) Their response was immediate; the engine slowed to a mutter, and they began cruising sedately towards me, shouting that they were going to introduce me to their fists, a crowbar, and then the river.
I straightened, a wild grin on my face and the machete in my fist. Behind me, seven other guys with similar happy looks on their faces came piling out of the trees. They didn't make a sound; they just smiled. The motorboat did a midriver u-turn and took off upstream at top speed. Once the wake had subsided, the otters and voles were undisturbed for the rest of the night.
That was quite a digression. Anyway for the stag night we're staying in a big farmhouse in the Peak District with a wood burning stove, and all the wood laid on by the owner. But I've been told in no uncertain terms to leave my axe at home. (The guy organising the stag is a truly excellent bloke, but he is truly urban). In fact we've been all told: no sharps of any kind. I can kind of see where he's coming from, but something in me rebels all the same. Any thoughts welcome, because I am kind of torn in two over this myself. It's all very well carrying sharps when you know the people you are with, but with strangers (it'll be be 50/50 for most of the guys there) maybe the guy has a point.
An aside: A few years ago we we encamped thus by the river Bann, all eight of us, and I was in those days enamoured of the old British Army Machete, which I used to chop (dead) wood. I was chopping away happily in the edge of the forest, right on the bank of the river, while a bunch of guys rode a motorboat up and down, up and down at full speed past me. Again. And again.
There are otters there. And voles. The wake these guys were producing was about two foot high. It really ticked me off, so I straightened and politely raised my voice a little and asked them to desist. (All right - I bellowed at them to **** the hell off) Their response was immediate; the engine slowed to a mutter, and they began cruising sedately towards me, shouting that they were going to introduce me to their fists, a crowbar, and then the river.
I straightened, a wild grin on my face and the machete in my fist. Behind me, seven other guys with similar happy looks on their faces came piling out of the trees. They didn't make a sound; they just smiled. The motorboat did a midriver u-turn and took off upstream at top speed. Once the wake had subsided, the otters and voles were undisturbed for the rest of the night.
That was quite a digression. Anyway for the stag night we're staying in a big farmhouse in the Peak District with a wood burning stove, and all the wood laid on by the owner. But I've been told in no uncertain terms to leave my axe at home. (The guy organising the stag is a truly excellent bloke, but he is truly urban). In fact we've been all told: no sharps of any kind. I can kind of see where he's coming from, but something in me rebels all the same. Any thoughts welcome, because I am kind of torn in two over this myself. It's all very well carrying sharps when you know the people you are with, but with strangers (it'll be be 50/50 for most of the guys there) maybe the guy has a point.