Cockerel

Residing in towns and cities most of my life I have never been woken up by the sound of a cockerel before. Until I took my two weeks away with Ray. At precisely three thirty every morning Mr Cockadoodledooh and his feathered friends took it upon themselves to alert all the unhappy campers that they were awake. Why oh why did the campsite owner, the rather disagreeable chap on reception, took to keeping poultry on a campsite is anyone's guess. What use are three cockerels without any hens? After three sleepless nights I took it to be a form of torture and bought earplugs, which had little effect. Indeed most of the people staying on the site resembled the walking dead in the daytime. Aside from the living hell of little sleep Ray and I were playing a losing battle with the weather and a caravan that could have doubled as a seive. The heavens opened as I nursed a hot sweet tea and a headache on my first morning and did not stop until the evening of our fifth night, if it wasn't torrential downpours it was showers or driving rain. Every type of rain cloud stopped by our campsite that week to say 'hi' and drop its watery load. We couldn't cook as our four pans were ringing to the sound of rain dripping in from every corner of the caravan. After twelve games of Guess Who and Rummikub we headed off to the site's 'fun pub' and that's when things turned sour.