The Marshmallow Uprising of Camp Windermere

Right. Gather round. I’m only telling this because my students made me — and because every good campfire story should involve mild stupidity and a suspicious number of marshmallows.

This happened when I was twelve, at a summer camp in the Lake District. We were doing the classic “build your own campfire” challenge. I, being a very serious child, decided my fire needed to be artistic.

So instead of sensible kindling, I gathered birch bark, pine needles, and — and this is key — a half-empty bag of Jet-Puffed marshmallows I’d smuggled from the dining hall. For “fuel efficiency,” I told myself. (I just really liked sugar.)

I struck the match. The birch bark caught beautifully. Then a marshmallow rolled too close to the flame.

It didn’t just melt. It screamed.

Imagine a high-pitched ssssss-POP! followed by a molten sugar bubble expanding like a balloon animal made of lava. The entire fire pit turned into a sticky, orange inferno. Smoke smelled like a candy shop had exploded inside a chimney.

My camp counsellor ran over, saw the bubbling sugar sludge, and yelled, “LEE! WHAT DID YOU FEED THIS FIRE?!”

I panicked and shouted back, “AMBITION!”

They made me sit on a damp log for the rest of the night while the boys tried to roast actual marshmallows over my “artistic” coals. Every time one caught fire, someone would whisper, “Careful — Anne’s fire monster might wake up.”

To this day, if I smell burning sugar, I instinctively check over my shoulder for a marshmallow uprising.

Moral of the story: Never trust a quiet child with matches and a sweet tooth. And if your campfire starts making noises… maybe don’t feed it more sugar.

Now… who’s got the graham crackers? 😏