Why Camping is So Addictive

W hen I was in my twenties, camping did not appeal in the slightest. “If I can’t plug my hairdryer in, I’m not going,” was my mantra.

Then in around 1988, Jack and I were persuaded to spend an August weekend under canvas in Builth Wells, mid Wales. We bought a festival tent, a camping stove, and a couple of canvas chairs and pitched on a small site just outside the town. That night, it rained heavily.

By morning the campsite looked like a wet Glastonbury and everything we had...