The journey began in the early hours of Friday morning, the caravan convoy rumbling down the winding country roads. Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the asphalt with patches of golden warmth. Excitement hummed through the air as our group—friends and their families—spoke over walkie-talkies, laughing at jokes and sharing updates about the best rest stops. By the time we reached the campsite, the sun had climbed high, and the open field was buzzing with activity.
Setting up the caravans was its own mini-adventure. The adults tackled the technical parts, unfolding awnings and connecting gas lines, while the younger ones stumbled through assembling folding chairs and tables. Someone misplaced a mallet, sparking a search that ended with it being unearthed from a box of snacks. Meanwhile, we fumbled with tent poles and guy ropes, occasionally stopping to swat away persistent flies. The sound of zippers being tugged open and closed mingled with the occasional frustrated groan, but it all came together eventually.
With the camp set, we turned our attention to the rolling hill that dominated the horizon. A path meandered through knee-high grass, and we followed it like explorers venturing into uncharted territory. The climb was steeper than it looked, and by the time we reached the top, our legs ached and our cheeks were flushed. But the view was worth it. Below, the patchwork of fields stretched endlessly, dotted with grazing sheep and the occasional distant farmhouse.
We spent hours on that hill, cameras in hand, shooting what could only be described as the most chaotic short film ever conceived. Scenes ranged from mock sword fights to dramatic slow-motion falls, complete with improvised dialogue. Between takes, we captured candid photos, the late afternoon light casting a warm glow over our group.
It was on the way back that my misadventure struck. The river had seemed calm and inviting, its surface glittering in the soft light. I wandered too close to the edge, my curiosity outpacing my balance. One moment, I was pointing out a cluster of fish; the next, I was waist-deep in cold water. The shock made me gasp, and as I splashed my way out, laughter erupted around me. Back at camp, I changed into dry clothes while enduring a chorus of jokes, my friends’ laughter trailing me like the river’s chill.
Day two dawned cool and misty, the horizon a blur of soft grays and greens. The tide had come in during the night, turning the docks into a semi-submerged obstacle course. We ventured out, testing the planks cautiously, only to discover how high the water had risen when our socks squelched with icy dampness. The sensation was unpleasantly sharp, but it left us giggling and hopping our way back to shore like a flock of startled birds.
Later, we set out on what was meant to be a leisurely three-hour walk. The trail wound through dense woods and open meadows, the sound of birdsong weaving through the air. At first, the journey was idyllic, with everyone pointing out interesting plants and sharing stories. But as the hours wore on, the path became increasingly unfamiliar. A wrong turn led us into a thicket, where the branches snagged at our clothes like mischievous fingers.
About the Author
John is an 11th grader from Melbourne, Australia.
He likes to play games, socialise, sing and play guitar. He dislikes sad stories and bad food.
His ambitions include writing and publishing songs, writing a short novel, learning to cook more, and getting into a course in the science field.