Julie Jay: My son is going to camp, but it’s not like an 1980s American movie

Camps are bigger than ever, but bear little resemblance to their American counterpart in that there are fewer grizzly bears and a lot more central heating

Julie Jay: "Committing to a camp is basically trying to pigeonhole who your child is, and that can be fairly thought-provoking."

“But I don’t want to sleep outside,” my four-year-old protested, as we informed him he’d be heading off to camp for the week. To be fair, I can’t blame him, given that when Peppa goes camping, it involves a lot of soggy bums and Daddy forgetting to bring the beans.

We are living in an era of disinformation, and nothing exemplifies this more than an Easter camp.

The name might suggest a bit of tent pitching and squatting in the woods, but in the year of our Lord 2025 ‘camp’ just consists of sitting inside a central-heated building and doing things children love, like painting, drawing, and colouring.

To an uninitiated artist like myself, this holy trinity seems like the same thing, but I am reliably informed by a four-year-old that these are very different things.

As a child watching American movies, I always thought of camp as something that would involve Patrick Swayze teaching me to dance, a lot of deciduous forestry, and falling in love with a teenage lifeguard, who, when at school, was called a freshman.

Sadly, this life-changing experience eluded me, because I didn’t grow up in downtown Manhattan and because my parents didn’t believe in children fending for themselves until they were old enough to vote. 

In what may yet be another development rooted in the Americanisation of global culture, camps here are bigger than ever, but they have little resemblance to their American counterparts, not least because there is neither a Patrick Swayze-type (thumbs down) nor a grizzly bear in sight (thumbs up).

For our little fella, camp has consisted of business as usual. It is essentially regular naíonara, held in his usual school building, with some new faces just to keep things interesting. Children on holidays have been thrown in to the mix, so he has been making friends from far-flung places, like Tralee and North Cork.

Much like North Korea, not much is known about what happens in North Cork, as it is marked by similar secrecy and a huge military presence. Rumour has it that the residents of Chareville are paid actors, who, like the residents of Pyongyang, follow the government line when asked about their quality of life.

This sprinkling of newbies was enough to make this week quite exciting for my four-year-old, who thoroughly enjoyed his cosy week of organised fun.

Racing in every day, he was blissfully unaware that this coming summer, we will probably sign him up for something that might consist of running up and down a football pitch in the rain and paying for the pleasure.

When it comes to getting into some of the more specialised camps, it never ceases to amaze me how much gatekeeping goes on with some of the more coveted ones.

I have seen friends become foes over a failure to relay the closing date for pottery camp, have received long voicenote vents over a colleague’s lack of forthcomingness when questioned about kayaking camp, and witnessed nostrils flaring over a cloak-and-dagger response to a question about where to get information on music camp. 

The more niche the camp, the less you are likely to know about it, because those who like to do niche things tend to keep their circle small, for fear of a floodgate scenario when other parents hear about an elusive maths camp.

Of course, I would never dream of sending my children to the latter, because I want them to be more popular than I was as a child (as discussed in a previous column, my love of poetry was only trumped by my friend’s love of maths in terms of being an instant repellant of potential playground buddies).

I am a divil for closing dates, but even I gulped when a friend suggested I throw my son’s name down for art camp 2026. Summer 2026! I practically choked on my flapjack, my body physically baulking at the idea anybody could be so organised. My protests that we could all be in a global recession by then, should this tariffs thing really take off, were instantly dismissed by this mammy-buddy.

“Even more reason to book now,” she said, as she simultaneously sent me the link, being, as she is, the type of person who is always looking ahead and keeping her finger on the stock market pulse. Needless to say, this is also the same friend I will touch base with should I ever win the GAA lotto, and I am looking to invest my €50.

Of course, the main thing holding me back from even thinking about what camp to send the little fella to come the summer is that it is forcing me to ask the questions: Who is he? What is he in to? How much do I know my child?

Committing to a camp is basically trying to pigeonhole who your child is, and that can be fairly thought-provoking. As a result, I, for one, will be hedging my bets by booking him in for football, in case he proves to be an egomaniac in the future, and also a week of art camp, in case he later identifies as someone who believes in cycle lanes.

When it comes to camp, does it really matter what they’re up to, if they’re out of the house for three hours a day? On that note, maybe I should give maths camp further consideration.