Poo Camp in Betws

“Dad, I need a poo.”

Not the most unusual sentence to hear from your seven-year-old — but when it comes just after midnight, in a tent, in a cold, dewy Welsh field, it hits differently.

I was only half-conscious, drifting in that foggy space between heavy sleep and stomach rumble. The quilt I’d brought as a mat had long been requisitioned for warmth, the tent was zipped tight on all sides, and the toilets were fifty metres away — across a stream, through knee-deep grass, and in absolute darkness. No lights. No moon. Just stars overhead and a near-dead rechargeable torch that had promised three hours but fizzled out after 35 minutes.

Then came the panicked follow-up:

“DAD!”

Cue emergency manoeuvres.

I wrestled with the sleeping bag zip. Then the tent zips — all three of them, stubborn and twisted like they had a personal vendetta. Meanwhile, Declan's voice was cracking with urgency, and I was scrambling for my trainers, now realising with cold clarity that I never untied the laces. Why? Why were they so tight?

The realisation hit me like a slap to the guts:

That instant barbecue earlier. The one that didn’t light properly, where the sausages and bacon had to cook on the one corner that managed a half-hearted glow. The hunger won out. We ate them anyway.

Instant Barbecue, my arse.

More like Instant Salmonella.

Declan was now shaking. I picked him up and sprinted through the wet grass, shoes half-on, torch barely flickering. The stream trickled ahead — though in the moment it sounded like a raging torrent. Where was the narrowest crossing point?

Too late.

SPLASH.

My right foot plunged straight into the icy water. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I legged it to the toilet block, got him to a cubicle but it was too late. As I plonked him on the pan Mount Vesuvius erupted and sprayed the walls, floor and toilet. It was like a scene from Kill Bill - only the walls weren't covered in blood... 

Oh dear...

Exhausted and freezing now, I quickly cleaned Declan up, closed the offending toilet door and carried him back on the return journey. Grass, stream, darkness.

SPLASH.

Left foot. Of course. Soggy symmetry.

We collapsed back into the tent, wrapped ourselves in the quilt, and, mercifully, the rest of the night passed without further incident.

The next morning, still bleary-eyed and damp-socked, we made our way back to the toilet block to freshen up. And there it was — Declan’s crime scene. His cubicle had been taped off with red-and-white barrier tape, a bold “OUT OF ORDER” sign slapped across the door like the aftermath of a gas leak.

Declan took one look, grinned, and declared proudly:

“I think my bottom exploded last night.”

---

📍 Location:

Wild campsite near Betws-y-Coed, Snowdonia

Conditions: Cold. Pitch black. Boggy.

Survivors: One soggy dad, one hollowed-out child.

Key lesson:

When an Instant Barbecue refuses to light — take the hint. Don't mess with the meat.