The Kind of Weekend You Carry With You

There’s a moment — just after the fire catches and before the first dram is poured — when everything quiets. Not silent, no. The logs crackle, a kettle hisses gently, and the low hum of distant conversations hangs in the air. But it’s the kind of quiet you feel in your bones. The kind that tells you: you’re in the right place.

That’s what it felt like on the second evening of Land Rovers & Campfires. We were deep in the Belgian countryside, the smell of damp pine and old engines lingering in the air. Around us, a ring of Defenders and Series models stood proud, dust still clinging to their panels from the day’s greenlaning. Each one had its own tale — dents earned on mountain passes, stickers from border crossings, modifications done under rain-soaked tarps.

The dinner fire had been burning since late afternoon. Geraldine was stirring something in a cast iron pot — sharp mustard and raw beef, the way her grandfather used to like it. Someone else was slicing bread from a local boulangerie, and there was butter so fresh it still smelled of the dairy. Someone opened a bottle of whisky that had travelled all the way from Islay, and offered it round with a wink and no need for words.

We didn’t plan speeches. We didn’t need introductions. Everyone who had made their way to this corner of Belgium had done so not just with satnavs and diesel — but with intention. To escape the noise. To share something real.

Tom was tightening a bolt on his roof rack. Brenda was showing someone how her custom drawer system worked. One of the Dutch guests had brought a tin of hand-rolled cigars, and they were already glowing at the edges, passing from hand to hand like torches of good conversation.

And then someone said, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly strangers become familiar when there’s mud on your boots and fire in your belly.”

That’s what this weekend was. Not an event. Not a rally. But a slow, steady exhale.

The next morning, when the sun broke through the mist and lit up the canvas rooftops, no one rushed. Coffee simmered slowly. Bread warmed by the fire. We ate brunch together — cheese from a small Ardennes farm, apple juice pressed just up the road. Some went for a final drive. Some simply sat, tracing the outline of tyre tracks in the mud with their boots.

And when it was time to leave, no one really said goodbye. We just packed slowly, one strap at a time, with that quiet knowing that we’d meet again — somewhere down another trail, under another sky, with another fire waiting.

Because Land Rovers & Campfires isn’t just a weekend. It’s the kind of memory that rides with you. Right there in the glovebox, next to the compass and the map.

And every time you strike a match, every time you hear the soft growl of your engine in low range — it’s there.

Waiting to be told again.

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