He muttered this several times while tearing Tilly apart the first morning of glamping in Maine, trying not to wake the kids.
He searched the pantry, every cupboard, the boot of the van … no tea. I searched the pantry, every cupboard, the boot of the van … no tea. I was certain it was in a shopping bag doubling for the pantry while we were ‘in transit’.
Sulking and disappointed, Talbot wandered off to the loo to ponder camping for 12 days with no Irish Tea.
He takes his tea seriously and had packed a little ziplock bag containing the remains of tea sent over from Ireland by his brother Paul last month. In Ireland, it’s a toss between Lyons and Barry’s and we often alternated between the two, drinking anywhere from two-to-five mugs a day, depending on the biscuits and social setting.
If anything ales you in Eire, a cuppa will fix it.
Returning from the shower house, he said he’d sparked a plan to FaceBook-post friends in Ireland wondering, how quickly could a box of tea be UPS’d or Fedex’d to our campground?
Would they answer the call?
Was my house-sitting mother back at home drinking all his tea?
He paced the camper in a cold sweat.
Finally, our late-sleeping tween arose from slumber and I asked, “Did YOU see Dad’s tea?”
“Um, there was a bag … long pause … it got knocked over last night. We threw what we could find back into it before bed,” she said.
By the angels of Lyons Green and Barry’s Gold, crisis averted, kettle filled and set to boil. Lipton … red rose … it just simply wouldn’t be glamping, or Irish.
P.S. Upon our return home to Nova Scotia a lovely package of Irish tea awaited him at the mailbox. If it’s not Guinness, it’s tea.