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.

The Betws-y-Coed Incident

 

Steve told me a belter of a tale, one that unfolded a few years back on what was supposed to be a quiet camping trip in the scenic woods of Betws-y-Coed. A group of lads – Mike, Roger, Dave, Mikey J and the usual suspects – had pitched up for a weekend of beers, banter and bad behaviour.

By chance, a party of young female ramblers set up camp nearby. Fate, as it often does, conspired to mix the two groups.

Mike was well-oiled by evening, tanked up on lager and, unusually for him, introduced to Bob Marley’s favourite pastime courtesy of the ramblers. A few drags in and he was woozy, pale around the gills, but still keen to impress. With slurred charm and quick-fire patter, he managed to win over one of the girls. When he suggested a late-night drive, she agreed without hesitation.

Now, Mike’s driving skills weren’t exactly sharp on the best of days – and beer plus hash didn’t improve matters. The two of them wove their way along the narrow country lanes until they found the perfect pull-in: a secluded lay-by. Romance blossomed, lips locked, and for a few minutes it was heading the right way.

Then Mike whispered he had to answer a call of nature. She assumed it was the usual tree-side pit stop. She checked her hair in the wing mirror while he stumbled off into the dark. But Mike hadn’t mentioned the full extent of the “call.” After a day’s worth of booze and the alien effect of hashish, his body finally staged a protest. He dropped his trousers, squatted, and – mid-poo – promptly fell asleep.

Minutes passed. Concern turned to confusion. The girl stepped out of the car to find her new flame collapsed in a ditch, pants round his ankles, a steaming log between his legs. To her, it looked like he’d suffered some kind of fit. Terrified, she bolted back to camp in hysterics.

By the time the lads found him and shook him awake, the damage was done. The poor rambler would never forget the sight: a romantic spin in the hills ending with a snoring suitor, trousers at half-mast, and nature’s cruel sense of humour on full display.

A tragedy? Maybe for her. For the rest of us, though, a story for the ages.