"We don’t do camping,” said a pompous acquaintance when I explained that our summer holiday this year was going to be a fortnight in a tent.
I do not mean “glamping”, where you get a luxury yurt with a fridge. I mean putting up a real canvas bell tent ourselves with real tent pegs and ropes, whatever the weather. I haven’t camped since I was a student and I didn’t care for it then. So deep down I felt it was not for me. No one at work could believe it when I told them.
My wife Katherine, the driver of the project, had spent a fortune on equipment and trialled a few weekends with a couple of the children. The tent is wonderful, spacious, robust, easy to erect. We laid out a woven carpet, little tables, comfortable inflatable beds (a luxurious American camp bed for me). Five of us under canvas. Incredibly cosy. We charged our mobile phones with solar panels. I baked bread on the fire in a heavy cast-iron Dutch oven, which is a sort of stewpot.
