Three weeks ago, my fiancee and I settled on a family vacation plan. Two weeks ago, we left. (If you do the math, you’ll realize that I’m describing a time period during which meteorologists across New England began saying the same thing: “Drought? What drought?”)

Now, more or less dried out, I’m willing to talk about the vacation for the first time.

First, let me point out that my loved ones read this newspaper. Because of this (and also because I would never dream of telling you something that wasn’t entirely true), I must say that the vacation was a huge success. I loved it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. And (here’s the important part) I am NOT complaining about the vacation, nor the company I kept, nor anything that happened during that glorious week.

What I am saying is this: After a week in a tent that never seemed to make the transition from “soggy” all the way to “dry” – it inexplicably stalled in the “damp” mode, even when the weather improved – I understand why Mr. Winnebago decided a hard-shelled tent on wheels might be a good idea.

The trip started off very well, after I realized that my Ford Ranger (which also sports one of those snazzy-but-useless flare-side beds) was a bit undersized for our needs.

I’m no mathematician, and I failed calculus in college, but even I knew that the prospects of shoehorning my fiancee, her two daughters, a week’s worth of camping supplies, food, and a half-cord of firewood into my mini-truck were slim.

Luckily, they make people who can help you out in situations like this. They’re called “Dad.”

All I had to do was barter a bit: I let him take care of his newest grandson – our springer spaniel, Pudge – for a week … and he gladly let me use a truck that was large enough that Sarah and Molly wouldn’t have to be strapped to the roof. (At least, that’s how I remember the bartering. Dad may have a different story.)

Armed with our food and luggage and wood (spending five bucks for eight logs in a campground always tests my thrifty Yankee sensibilities), we hit the road, bound for points south.

South? Why not Maine?

There’s a simple one-word reason: Storyland. (Or maybe that’s two words. I forgot to look at the sign … more on the reason for that in a moment.)

As it turns out, Molly, who is 7, missed out on Storyland when Sarah went as a 3-year-old. And ever since, 9-year-old Sarah has entertained her sister with stories of this magical place in rural New Hampshire.

That’s why. (Plus, I’m basically an oversized kid, and I never went to Storyland, either. I wasn’t arguing.)

So off we went, despite a weather forecast that called for rain. We were armed with air mattresses, which (I hoped) would float … if they had to.

The campground operator welcomed us warmly. He told us he was glad we had arrived. Then he told us that he’d received 5 inches of rain overnight, and had nearly had to evacuate all the campers as the Saco River threatened to wash all of them (even the ones on air mattresses) downstream.

Later that night, as we settled into our tents … it rained … again.

In the morning, I awoke to the sensation of rainwater slapping against my forehead as it seeped through the ceiling seams of our tent.

Luckily, they make things for just such a problem. They’re called “tarps.” By the end of the day – and after a nice day trip to a local attraction – we had quite a tarp village going.

If you think “tarping up” should have been a simple procedure, you ought to realize two things.

First, I don’t know how to tie any knots. Well, not any readily recognizable (and therefore quite useful) camping knots. All I know is fishing knots. So, while we were probably ready to troll quite a bit earlier in the day, by the time I got everything really cinched down, it was nearly dark.

And second, when it comes to tying down tarps, I need a few things. Trees. Lots of them. And we had very few. Therefore, I had to be inventive. (Stop laughing. It wasn’t nearly as bad as you think.)

Through our entire vacation, we dealt with adversity with smiles on our faces. We visited a water park (a real one … not the one that threatened to run through our tents the second night). We saw a waterfall (ditto). And we went shopping (luckily, we didn’t need more tarps, because one camper told us that the local Wal-Mart had sold out of them).

Eventually, we got to Storyland, and found that it had been overrun. Not by ill-tempered tourists who spent most of the time yelling at their children (though there were plenty of those, too).

By bees.

The bees were (a jolly first aid worker informed us) angry because their ground nests had been flooded.

First-aid worker, you ask?

Yes. Molly (who didn’t much care for bees even before she actually met one) got stung before we got out of the parking lot. If you were outside about 11 a.m. that day, you likely heard her.

At the time, it was traumatic. For her. For us. For those tourists who had to take valuable time away from yelling at their own kids to see what had happened to Molly.

But after awhile, we all recovered and had a nice day. The rides were fun. The sun came out. Molly found out that her finger felt better.

And after an hour or two of icing her injured digit she found that she had discovered her own story in this magical place. One about bees.

One that made her smile.

One she could tell over … and over … and over.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.