Memory is strange and fucked. Writing about my Sunday migraine triggered a childhood memory.
When I was about 10 years old, on a camping holiday, I was struck down by a migraine. I’d had a migraine before and had been to hospital about it, so my parents weren’t worried, they knew what it was. The camp ground was at a friend of a friend’s farm. It was one of those mid-summer days distinguished by a cool breeze and bright hazy sunshine. The meadow was in the middle of a valley. Few roads, some narrow lanes, few cars, the nearest hamlet five miles away. Not just a campsite. It was a working farm; one of those working farms that makes no financial sense. There were cows and sheep. The air smelled of cow shit, cut grass, a smidgen of ozone and barbecues. The grass in the meadow, when looked at carefully, showed signs of animal occupation in the form of rabbit shit. My parents put me in a dark, cool tent and occasionally brought cold drinks.
I remember the small holes in the tent ceiling, watching as beams of light illuminated pollen in the air. I watched serenely as the as the beams moved, over the course of hours, across the tent.
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