Have you ever been camping?

The first time I ever went “camping” happened sometime in the mid-90s. I must have been around ten or eleven, and it was a hot summer at Lake Balaton. I was spending the long school holidays at my grandparents’, and right next door lived my best friend.

This was before the internet, so boredom was a real thing—and when it hit, we had to come up with our own adventures.

My dad was a reservist soldier, which I could never quite reconcile in my head, because in civilian life he was a soft-spoken, slightly chubby, bearded teacher. The kind who wore brown sandals. With socks. Definitely not the “tough guy” type.

Still, it meant that every now and then I’d find interesting things around the house—like a gas mask… or, occasionally, a military tent.

And well—if there’s a tent, why not use it?

So we set it up in my grandparents’ garden and decided that we were going to camp out in it. Hungary, even today, is considered fairly safe—and back then… well, “different times,” as they say. Although honestly, I’m not sure if it really was safer, or if we just weren’t constantly exposed to every horror story like we are now. And parents were definitely more relaxed back then. Or more careless. Hard to say. Either way, two girls sleeping in a tent in the garden didn’t seem like a problem.

We gathered as many snacks as we could from both houses and “moved in.” If I remember right, we put inflatable mattresses on the ground and piled bedding on top.

We could hardly wait for evening—until the family went to bed—and of course, we had already decided that we definitely wouldn’t.

Once it got dark, we snuggled into the tent and, like proper pre-teen girls, giggled and chatted late into the night. Eventually we started to get sleepy, wished each other goodnight, and were just about to drift off…

…when something thudded against the side of the tent.

We both jolted.

Even now, I can almost feel that knot forming at the same time in my throat and my stomach, as I started to tremble inside.

At the time, the movie Dennis the Menace was all the rage. I’d even seen it in the cinema. There was a villain in it—a terrifying-looking man—who kidnapped Dennis and tried to kill him. (Back then, apparently, that was perfectly fine for a kids’ film.)

And somehow, that was exactly who came to mind. That someone like him had come for us too.

Another thud.

Another flinch.

We looked at each other.

“What was that?” one of us whispered—but before the words had even settled, another thud.

And then another.

And another.

At the same time, my mind raced—who could hate me enough to come and take revenge?! (I had quite the imagination.)

“Should we call out? He already knows we’re here…”
Thud.

Without even noticing, we had inched closer and closer to the middle of the tent, clinging to each other, shaking.

My friend, her voice trembling, called out softly:
“Who’s there?”

No answer.

A few seconds later—thud.

Again.

And again.

I gathered every bit of courage I had.
“What if I open the zip… just a little? If he wants to hurt us, he can open it anyway…” I whispered.

My friend nodded.

At first, I opened it just a crack—but I couldn’t see anything.

I pulled it a little further—enough to stick my hand out—but still nothing. Just darkness.

I opened it wider.

This was hopeless.

I had to go out.

“One life, one death,” I thought. I’ll go.

I had never been that scared. Not before, not since.

Trembling like a little rabbit, I stuck my head out. When that didn’t help, I stepped outside into the darkness.

Except—it didn’t feel quite so pitch black anymore. In fact, a rotating beam of light from a disco—kilometres away—was sweeping across the side of the tent.

But there was no one there.

And then—suddenly—

WHAM!

From behind the tent, Fafique—my friend’s cat—launched himself full-speed straight onto the tent, chasing that moving beam of light.

That was the “thud.”

He must have come over from next door, hearing us laughing in the garden, and couldn’t resist the dancing light.

I burst out laughing.

My friend’s head popped out of the tent, and as I told her what had happened, Fafique went flying at the tent again—right on cue.

Now we were both laughing.

It took us quite a while to distract him enough so we could finally get back to our original plan—sleep.

So that was my first “camping” experience.

I only tried it two more times after that. Once, a few years later, in a similar setup—we got into serious trouble for sneaking out at night to walk around with some local troublemakers.

And the other time, at seventeen, in Italy, when I used cocoa butter instead of sunscreen… which also didn’t end particularly well.

Haven’t attempted it since.

But now that you’ve brought it up… why not?

Life feels a bit “boring” these days—maybe I should add it to my bucket list.