Listen to the mad man

He looks at me through glasses whose lenses resemble the bottom of a marmalade jar. It’s not clear if he can see me at all. The man is dressed in a waterproof ski jacket, dark brown corduroy trousers, and hiking boots. A wool scarf is wrapped around his neck. A red knitted hat sits askew on his head. It's clear he's dressed warmly. A commendable goal in itself. But it's the height of summer.

He's standing right in front of me. "Will it work?" he asks. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I'm holding a long aluminium tent pole in one hand. The guy rope in another. We're setting up the awning. My wife and I. And although we've done this dozens of times, it seems like we have to relearn the skill every time.

An hour ago, we arrived with our car and caravan at the Whispering Woods campsite. We sent the children to the playground. It's best not to have any onlookers while setting up the tent. This shared activity quickly degenerates into an argument. Much to the amusement and of the other campers on the field.

Aside from the intense heat, the pitching is going brilliantly. We have no poles left, the guy ropes are pulled tight, the zippers can be closed, the pegs are firmly driven into the ground.

"Have you already heard it?" the man says. "The world is ending. Next Thursday. I think around a quarter past six."

I ignore him. We lug the provisions, the duvets, the crates of board games and books into the caravan. The prophet of doom doesn't get the hint. He stays where he was. Like a lonely traffic light. With his hands behind his back, he watches every move, very step.

Elize's face is filled with rage. Had she had a gun, the first death at the Whispering Woods campsite would have been regrettable. Should I be clearer? Should I tell the prophet of doom to get lost? But technically, he's on common ground. He's free to come and go as he pleases. So I keep working and let him ramble on and on.

"Who is that man?" the children ask. We're sitting outside next to the caravan in the shade of a chestnut tree. Bees are buzzing, crickets are chirping, blackbirds are whistling, pigeons are cooing. We're eating spaghetti. It's a habit. On our first day at a campsite, we eat this Italian dish. It's easy to prepare, and everyone loves it.

"I don't want you anywhere near him," says Elize. The children are startled by her harsh voice. They notice the fear in her eyes. We focus on the pasta. Our lips are red, our arms are wet with sweat.

We have a popsicle for dessert. Because it's so hot, Elize and the children are going for a swim in the pool. I'm going to do the dishes. Afterward, I plan to rest from this busy day. Maybe I'll read a book. Or browse through the latest news. Most likely, I'll fall asleep.

"People live in ignorance of what's about to happen," says the seer. He's standing next to me, cleaning a frying pan. What does a prophet of doom eat on vacation, I wonder? But I'm scrubbing the plates, scouring the cutlery, and polishing the cups.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks. He points to his tent. It's in the same field where our caravan is. After I've washed the dishes and put the things back in the cupboards, I head to his campsite.

Granted, it's a tent. Its shape is vaguely recognizable. But it's secured with so many extra guy ropes, cables, line, and cords that I can barely see the entrance. What has he built? A bunker?

The tea tastes fine. It tastes like chamomile. Or is it strawberries?

We're sitting on fishing chairs. It takes a while before I can sit down properly. After falling over three times, I stay put.

"We're living in the last days," says the prophet. "The end won't be long now." I say nothing. I'm just glad I'm not collapsing.

"People don't pay attention to the signs of the times," says my host. "They act as if they have eternal life. They poison the earth, they pollute the seas. And they think they can get away with it. But nothing could be further from the truth. Mark my words. Next Thursday. A quarter past six. Then the people of this earth will realize how vulnerable they are, how weak, how exposed.

"This can't go on like this," says the neighbour from across the field. Her voice is decisive, irritated, loud. Around her are the campers from the field. At least, the ones with children. It's early in the evening. We all have a beer in our hands. Or a chilled glass of white wine. It should be a typical summer evening at a typical campsite. With lots of joviality, music, and drinks.

But the atmosphere is tense this evening. We're no longer vacationers. No holidaymakers, tourists. We are protestors.

"We have to report him," says the spokesperson. She's the only one standing. She's drinking orange juice with vodka. We've all brought our summer chairs  – at her request – to her place.

The meeting is taking place in an awning. It's amazing how many people you can fit in this shelter. It's like an outdoor church service, I tell my wife. She’s not in the mood for lame jokes.

So far, we've had a wonderful time at Whispering Woods Campsite this past week. We've swum a lot, cycled, walked, eaten ice cream, played games, lazed around, read books and slept.

But there's always the prophet of doom. And every day he's dressed in his waterproof ski jacket, dark brown corduroy pants, and hiking boots. Sometimes he chats with one of the guests, but usually he sits in front of his tent. Just listening and staring to the radio.

"The children are afraid of him," says one of the campers. His beer belly is like a space hopper. There's a murmur of agreement.

"He's no good,” he continues. “He's not normal. Not like us. But especially his talk about the end of the world makes it so creepy to have him in our neighbourhood. We're all on vacation, aren't we? Then we don't have to listen to his dire predictions, do we?"

"I suggest we go to the campsite manager tomorrow," says the leader. "I want him to leave. His tent—is it a tent?—is a complete disgrace, as well. It looks like he's living in a cave, a bunker.

Everyone agrees to the plan. We're quite pleased with ourselves. And we happily pour ourselves another drink.

That Wednesday night is tropically hot. And extremely humid. Early in the morning, sweat is dripping from our foreheads. The blankets are soaked through. According to the weather forecast, this is the last hot night. Thankfully, it is going to be much cooler.

As I toss and turn on my mattress like a convict awaiting trial, I hear screams. It's the prophet of doom. I've had enough. A line must be drawn. If he's going to wake up respectable campers from their sleep this hour, he has no right to be at this peaceful campsite.

I'm not the only one the seer has woken with his din. Several other campers are standing in the field. Then someone points to the sky. A grey, dark trunk hangs in the air. Furious, hellish, and devastating, the tornado heads our way. I'm blown to the ground. I scramble to my feet and crawl on my hands and knees across the dry grass to the awning, to the awning, to the caravan. I cry while pushing, pulling, and dragging my wife and children outside.

Their wet, thin bodies glisten in the first morning light. There's no time to hesitate. We run to the man who's waving wildly and untamed. It's the prophet of doom. He's yelling and screaming for everyone to get inside. Into his tent. Into his bunker.

The heavy tent canvas flaps back and forth. Everything shakes, moves, vibrates, and trembles. The wind howls, barks, yelps. The children seek comfort from their mothers, their fathers look at each other in despair. We muse, is this the end of the world?

The owner of the bunker zips up his tent. A Noah locking the ark. Despite the relentless roar of the wind, the uncontrolled shaking of the canvas, the messenger of God points us to the back of his tent. A table lamp spreads cozy light. Folding chairs are waiting for us.

When everyone is seated, the prophet arrives with coffee and sandwiches. The wind pounds the tent. As if the storm has a sledgehammer, a truncheon. Our host remains calm, serene. It allows the mothers to wipe the tears from their children's cheeks. It makes us feel safe. And amid the commotion, I have time to check my watch on this. It’s Thursday morning. A quarter past six.