After the episode with the gravy fountains at our ill-fated Christmas party, I didn’t have high hopes for Rhik’s idea of what might be useful for cooking on the hoof – as far as I’m concerned, all you need is a box of matches, and possibly an ancient Trangia if you’re planning to make a night of it. Rhik, though, has brought along a pizza oven. A pizza oven and a smokeless grill and a martini-maker that looks a bit like a sex toy, and some sort of weird Tupperware-like thing I’m too scared to ask about. To try to meet him halfway on the gadget front, I have packed some skewers with my homemade marshmallows in case he proves as inept at gathering twigs as I fear. God knows what we’re going to toast them over.
As I peacefully knead my pizza dough amid the beauty of nature, Rhik emerges from the trees, dragging a comically large branch and a terrier in the direction of his tiny oven. He then attempts to break this behemoth into kindling with his bare hands, fighting Wilf for every single piece – at one point I distinctly hear him threaten to push the dog into the oven, Hansel and Gretel-style, though when I pluck up the courage to look over, he is on the ground poking feebly at the spluttering fire with a twig while Wilf launches himself repeatedly, and enthusiastically, at his head.
To give the man credit, by the time I am ready to cook, it is quite warm by the oven, which resembles a limbless urban tortoise stranded in the middle of a damp Sussex field – something is clearly burning at a great clip inside, and I am not altogether sure it’s the wet sapling from earlier. “I hope that packaging didn’t have anything nasty in it,” Rhik says, wiping the sweat from his brow. I decide to let this go, and concentrate instead on a more urgent problem that has just occurred to me as I look into the gaping maw of the beast: “Where am I going to put the pizzas?” Samadder has stuffed it so full of wood and, apparently, dangerous plastics, that there is no room for any food, indeed could never be any room for food unless perhaps you were catering for the Borrowers on a fast day.
Grudgingly, he pushes the charcoal back to make a space about half the size of my miniature pizzas, and indicates I should cook them directly on the ashy floor of the oven, “like in Pizza Express”. I’m pretty sure I have never had a grey pizza that is half-burnt, half raw at that particular establishment, but Rhik clearly eats there more often if he’s had a chance to examine its cooking arrangements in such minute detail. On the plus side, Wilf profits from the many crumpled misfits the oven spits out – as does Samadder, who seems to be assuming credit for the fact that they taste better than they look. Thanks to my bloody recipe, I think bitterly, as I salvage a few to make into nibbles for later.
Having worked on the principle of the simpler the better where my companion is concerned, I have also brought along a load of vegetables to grill on the smokeless barbecue which, he has already proudly informed me, is “fan assisted”. I’m not sure he even knows what this means, it’s just a phrase he has picked up from the promotional video online, but the speed of the thing cannot be denied. I have lost whole evenings of my life to mollycoddling fretful barbecues that refuse to get hot enough to cook so much as a single sausage, yet within five minutes, we have chargrilled asparagus spears. What they lack in smoky flavour they more than make up for in speed, a price I am willing to pay if it means my dinner doesn’t depend on Rhik’s dubious prowess with a couple of flints.
I am pleased to see he has used the time saved wisely, suddenly popping up in a tailcoat which looks as if it might provide better protection from the British summer than my own crumpled floral dress, stuffed into a rucksack (Rhik, naturally, has brought a cabin-sized wheelie case uniquely unsuited to rough terrain). His fancy outfit gives me greater confidence in his cocktail-making abilities than the sinister-looking gadget he produces, which boasts, according to the box, “all the utensils you need to create delicious martinis” – though it can’t quite make up for its owner’s deficiencies in the mixology department. I am so glad to have a drink, however, that I coo admiringly at his masterful way with a strainer, and refrain from making any jokes about useless tools.
The chargrilled vegetable pizzette go down a treat, too – with enough pesto you can barely taste the melted polythene – and having thus fortified ourselves, it’s time to get down to the real challenge; making the main course in the “flameless cookbox”. I have chosen carbonara on the basis of its historic links with itinerant charcoal burners, but the first problem becomes apparent when I see the size of said box; there is no way the spaghetti is going in without a fight. Yet, once shaken up with some beaten egg, grated cheese and pancetta, the results really aren’t too bad. A bit al dente perhaps, but still pretty remarkable from what’s basically a hand warmer in a Thermos.
We celebrate this achievement by toasting my marshmallows and amaretti biscuits with a square of chocolate over an open fire – my attempt to convince Rhik of the joys of the simple life. Unfortunately, the smoke blows directly into my eyes and I begin to cry. Rhik laughs, and I strongly consider stabbing him with a sharply pointed skewer. Definitely time for bed.
Waking up the next morning to the calming sound of rain on canvas, I feel a lot better, especially after refusing to try out his stupid shower gadget in favour of a good old wet wipe. Indeed, Inspect-a-Gadget, who is considerably less perky after a night in the great outdoors, is nearly out of ammunition; all he can throw at me now is a portable espresso maker, which he pumps away at perilously close to my head, wheezing like an elderly porn star, while I smugly fry up my breakfast on the fan-assisted grill. Sadly, he has only brought one magic self-heating breakfast-in-a-bag, so I selflessly enjoy a fried egg sandwich with bacon while he miserably spoons what looks like a pallid severed finger from his bag of mushy baked beans. I sip my cold coffee, look at the sky, and feel deeply, profoundly happy.
‘This isn’t the Famous Five!’ Rhik Samadder defends himself against the cook’s barbs, the dog’s greed and the wilds of nature
I gather together the cooking devices. I have heard Felicity’s ambitious menu plan, and I don’t rate her chances with this stuff. She is talking about Amalfi lemons, and she has brought a small dog with her. There’s a hairbrush in her bag. I want to tell her nature is a brutish beast, not a Boden catalogue; we should be curing fish and hoarding nuts. But she will learn.
First up: the Lotus Grill, a smokeless, battery-powered barbecue. The concept is intriguing. Isn’t the point of a barbecue to imbue food with smoky flavour, not to worry about whether you have remembered to pack four AAs? Everything about this bongo-shaped contradiction screams devil’s work: the lighter gel that burns invisibly; the speed with which the funnel of charcoal glows red hot and starts crackling; the alien death whirr of the fan. I am impressed by it without remotely understanding it, much like televised poker.
I take the grill over to Felicity’s woodland workstation, where she is already making her own pesto, the swot. I don’t say this to her, because she is wearing an apron with wellington boots, giving the impression she has just clocked off at an abattoir. Let’s give her a bit of space.
I also leave her a flameless cooking box – another thing I don’t understand – and a Mexican clay wood-burning pizza oven. The latter resembles an igloo, and is similarly impossible to light a fire inside. In my attempts to do so, I employ the masculine-sounding Swedish Firesteel, which looks like a car key stuck to a USB stick. It is actually a magnesium block with a metal striker. Clashing them together generates a spark, which ignites tiny shavings of magnesium – and your kindling.
In theory. I bash away for 35 minutes, producing bright sparks, but no fire. I raid Felicity’s supplies while she plies dough and trims asparagus, looking for delicate things to burn. Cardboard, paper, tissue, even sawdust all fail. (Is this what they mean by a tinder date? It’s a bloody waste of time.) I hurl the useless Firesteel into a field.
Luckily, we have backup – a box of thick, windproof matches that burn tenaciously, like leprechaun sparklers. Magic – soon the pizza oven is roaring, a turtle burned out of its shell by vandals. Now we’re cooking. I am hampered by Wilf, who has decided to “help” by grabbing out of my hand sticks meant for the fire. These are not funtime sticks. I appeal to his rationality, but he is a dog. I give him some space, too, seized by a need to be alone.
Cacoon is a swing-chair-cum-hammock that provides tree-based sanctuary for one. Unfortunately, assembling it is buggeringly hard. There are enormous flaps, metal rods that must be bent into a circle, and loops and ties inside and out. I am hampered by Wilf again, who has crawled into the unstructured canvas shell with me and is indiscriminately biting bits of it. “This isn’t the Famous Five,” I shout at him. “Get out!”
Eventually, we (well, just me, really) succeed in hanging the pod. I climb in and instantly feel at home. It is like a spaceship, or a bauble suspended from a Christmas tree. I have privacy, space to commune with the natural gods. It is wonderful. Felicity walks past, blocking the light as she peers in. “Weird,” is her assessment. She doesn’t respect the natural gods, but she will learn.
“Do you want dinner, bumface?” Felicity must be talking to Wilf. No; in fact, our supper is ready. Somehow, she has managed to create a dazzling meal using the items I left her. There are pizzettes with chargrilled veg, a beautifully rich carbonara. Homemade marshmallow s’mores are the best I have ever had. She has even traded in fish-counter-chic for a gorgeous dress. In the spirit of aggressive oneupmanship, I change into my nicest clothes, too, and we enjoy a sumptuous, three-course meal in bucolic bliss. She cannot win this.
After dinner, Felicity goes off to brush her hair and drink wine in a yurt. I am considering sleeping in the elements, so I have brought Breezy Bed, a self-inflating lounger that traps air like a windsock. However, the instructions have been misplaced. Directions to an online video are no help. I stare at the outsized Femidom in my hands and pull out five metres of plastic packaging, before realising that this is the lining of the bed. I wave around the gutted red fabric for a while, like a Maoist declaring permanent cultural revolution, then give up.
I have a backup – Airpad 2+. It claims to inflate in seconds by amplifying breath. Your lips never need touch it – a retrievable inner plastic lip is held around the mouth like a mask. It needs a clear air channel to work, so I lie on the ground with the lilo on top of me, puffing. It’s killing my abs, because I don’t have any. It does eventually work, but not in seconds; I am hyperventilating like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. I lie on the damp ground, underneath the bed, exhausted. The inevitable rain begins. Perhaps wine and a yurt aren’t a terrible idea.
Breakfast. Dawn of the day. Time to fuel the body, and spring into action, which I do at 11am. Felicity has been up for hours, making tea in a collapsible kettle and preparing a cooked breakfast on the Lotus Grill, which, annoyingly, she has mastered. Mouthwatering, but I have chosen a rugged alternative – breakfast in a bag. Pouring cold water into a pocket containing aluminium powder and other chemical goodies starts an exothermic reaction, heating the food pouch. I watch as the foil bag swells rapidly, expelling water and hissing like a cut snake. Grub’s up! Sadly, it’s disgusting – sweet beans, cheap-meat sausages and curdled egg in tomato sauce. But this isn’t The Wolseley. Besides, I have got bigger problems, chiefly dehydration. Rather than weighing myself down with water bottles, I have packed a Lifestraw. Developed as an emergency relief aid, it’s a drinking tube that filters out 99.9999% of waterborne bacteria, meaning users can safely drink from almost any source at all, in my case the nearest river.
“I think Wilf should wee in it,” suggests Felicity sweetly. “Don’t you want to really test yourself?”
“I DON’T THINK I SHOULD DRINK DOG PISS,” I reply, wondering how my life turned out like this. I lie on the river bank – in the water beneath me bob a translucent creature and a fag butt. I am a man of the trail, I tell myself as I stick in my straw and suck. It’s hard work. Top notes of earth, a gritty finish. Not bad. (The following evening, at home, I am struck by the most severe vomiting I have ever experienced, which lays me out for days. But by then I had eaten eel pasta, and accidentally watched Big Brother, so I am not sure which to blame.)
Lying on a damp bank, starving, bacterial poisoning waiting in the wings, I feel quite wretched. I don’t feel closer to nature; I feel further from it than ever before. “Can I have some of yours?” I say. Felicity lets me fill a plate with bacon, sausages and hot buttered toast. When my back is briefly turned, Wilf helps me finish my food. My loss is total.
Felicity leans back, content, as if waiting for bluebirds to alight on her shoulders. “Camping is fun,” she muses.
She’ll learn.
