Not when it’s raining.
I happily forgive camping’s little idiosyncrasies such as getting dressed to brave the night air for a short ungainly bolt to the loo, or the squeaky rollercoaster-esque air bed forcing synchronised roll-overs by myself and husband.
I like waking up in the morning under canvas. I like living life simply, temporarily free from the baggage of stuff and luxury items.
I enjoy eating meals made on the camping stove (made by husband I must add who is of course a far better cook than I), and the comradeship of card games under lamplight.
Yes I know its really only play acting at living rough and millions of people exist like this day in day out, but a large bag of canvas and a couple of fold-ups chairs is perfect escapism for this spoilt 21st Century westernised gal.
Even the five-hour (should have been three hours) drive like treacle through August holiday traffic to get there, and then the same in reverse, does not dampen the camping experience.
But torrential bloody-minded rain does. There’s no need for it. I don’t mind showers here and there, and I actually rather like the sound of rain on the tent. But three days non-stop? (OK I’m lying because we did have a six-hour reprieve during that time. It was just long enough to lull us into a sense of false security only to start bleating down again. Sodding rain.)
Ironically we returned home (a day early because we’d had enough) to glorious sunshine, an eight-degree temperature increase, and not a cloud in the sky.
So the tent did get some sun after all. It spent the day sunbathing in the back garden, flat on its back, drying out…along with me.