Growing up in the country we weren’t like city kids, we didn’t wander the streets at night and we didn’t spend our weekend on some endless pub crawl that we thought our parents were too stupid to realise we were doing. We went camping.
Our parents trusted us to take the farm bikes, a few sleeping bags and supplies and a tent and disappear into the bush for as many nights as we wanted. It probably had something to do with us being more than five hundred kilometres from the city and a good forty kilometres from our closest town but it was also because we didn’t let them down.
We’d been camping in the bush near home since before we were teenagers and not only did we know how to survive we knew how to camp and have a good time without leaving a large footprint to tell people where we’d been.
Our camping group usually consisted of Adam Granger, Robert Johnston, Sally Payne, Michael Stand, Melissa Stand and myself, James Sterling. We had a nice little secluded spot down on Clarence Creek where with a few supplies from home we could catch as many fish as we needed and survive for days without any interaction from the real world.
Although most city kids probably wouldn’t have liked it we loved it and to us camping down by the creek was our version of living like kings and eating like we were sitting down to a royal
feast for every meal. That was until the day that Adam’s uncle, Barry, somehow penetrated our little circle of friends and talked himself into joining one of our trips.
We all rocked up down at the creek, supplies in hand and ready for a long weekend of nothing but ourselves and nature. The day was late by the time we arrived and although catching fish was probably achievable Barry told us he’d prepared a special meal for us on our first night.
By the time we’d pitched out tents and lit our camp fire Barry was lining up seven plates of a red gelatinous goop with white orbs floating in it. Apparently it didn’t need heating and when asked what it was Barry’s response was “Eyeball Gore.”
We all knew Barry was a practical joker and loved to gross people out with silly and somewhat sick comments all the time but we also all groaned in unison at his meal’s name to play along. It wasn’t until we’d eaten, and thoroughly enjoyed the meal that Barry told us what Eyeball gore really was.
Of course we didn’t believe him at first but by the time most of us were ready to turn in for the night we’d also realised that Barry’s farm was the only one in the area that did not have a fox problem.