Magazine
Latest Issue

The camping holiday

My father was an unhappy man, silent and angry. Luckily, we were seldom in his company. Then we went camping

By prospect   June 1998

It was July 1963, a Monday, and we were due to leave for our long promised camping holiday in Wales. We awoke early, my brother and I. He was six, I was eight. At that time we lived with our father. My mother had left the previous year.

My father’s name was Ernest. He was an unhappy man, silent and angry. Luckily, we were seldom in each other’s company because he worked at night and slept for most of the day. He preferred the night, he said, because he could work on restoring his beloved Railton motorcars (he had two)…

Register today to continue reading

You’ve hit your limit of three articles in the last 30 days. To get seven more, simply enter your email address below.

You’ll also receive our free e-book Prospect’s Top Thinkers 2020 and our newsletter with the best new writing on politics, economics, literature and the arts.

Prospect may process your personal information for our legitimate business purposes, to provide you with newsletters, subscription offers and other relevant information.

Click here to learn more about these purposes and how we use your data. You will be able to opt-out of further contact on the next page and in all our communications.

This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to letters@prospect-magazine.co.uk

More From Prospect