the joy of camping

I doubt there is one amongst us who, upon seeing a refugee camp full of tents and deprivation, doesn’t offer up a silent prayer of gratitude – even the atheists. ‘Not me Lord,’ we think to ourselves, settling into our armchair for another night’s TV.

And yet, every so often, a mania overtakes us and we succumb to the idiotic notion that a week or two under canvas is just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor was a sadist, that is.

First there’s the frantic search of the house to find all the equipment that you swore last time you’d never need again. The equipment you helpfully dispersed to as many cupboards and rooms as possible. Then, when you’ve located everything – or given up the ghost and bought replacements, you pack up and head into the wilderness. Well, a wilderness with a toilet block, shower facilities, recycling area and an internet café. Okay, I may have exaggerated a little with that last one.

What could be more calming than the peace of the countryside? That sublime dawn chorus of farting from nearby tents, like a trumpeting ensemble to the Gods? On a good day you can get harmonies, interspersed with all the snoring and whinnying from your neighbours. From those same delightful neighbours who wander back from the pub at night, pissed and incoherent, whispering louder than a jet engine, about nothing at all. And what rural experience would be complete without the melodic drone of someone on a mobile declaring, “I’m in a tent – go on, guess where?” The arctic, you may wish malignly.

The weather, of course, conspires to keep you in a state of perpetual moistness. Whether it’s the damp clothing – silly you for having only one pair of walking boots – or the unexpected warm summer evening, turning your camping fleece into a water-retaining sauna. And you can be sure that the heady scent of sweat, body odour and staleness will linger in your nostrils for days to come.

Trying to make the tea on an incline is like a worst-case scenario safety film. The groundsheet may be waterproof but not, alas, melt proof. Still, it’s all part of living among the elements. There’s plenty of wildlife too and most of it is set on getting inside your tent. Not the birds though – they’re too canny for that. And besides, why would they want to go inside when they can use the outside for target practice?

It’s true that the food tastes better but sensory deprivation is probably a factor. And although I accept that things cost more on holiday, does a newspaper really justify a handling charge?

Before you know it, the last day has arrived. The postcards have long since been written and posted – with the kind of gritted-teeth optimism you normally only find in a hostage situation. The mound of rubbish is removed; the wrestling match that is repacking the tent has been fought and won. Then, as you survey the pallid grass where your temporary home used to stand, one of you will amiably suggest that all in all it was great fun – same time again next year? Why not, the other will agree like a grinning amnesiac, why not indeed.