“When did we ever lock our tent?” said my husband as we unrolled our sleeping bags on the sturdy pine bed.
True, I thought, but our tent didn’t have a door with a latch and the yurt we’d rented at Murphy’s Point Provincial Park did.
“Doors should be locked,” my city-girl brain reasoned, but I nodded.
We had returned alone to this campground after 14 years absence. The last time, our daughters were with us, then 6, 9 and 12 years old. That outing ended at dinner time in rain with a sputtering campfire and stone-cold, tinfoil wrapped potatoes. Continue reading