SATURDAY TIMES TRAVEL SUPPLEMENT FRONT COVER ARTICLE
AUGUST 2005

I hate camping. Well, perhaps not 'hate', but if it's a choice between lying on cold, stony ground with a force ten gale blowing three feet above my head with only a tin of beans to keep me going, and an aromatherapy bath with some chilled Chilean rose to hand, I know which I'd choose.

This strong dislike for canvas and tins was brought about by a merciless - though character-building, I'm told - childhood, where every holiday involved heaving my laden rucksack up some Godforsaken mountain or other, from the Cairngorms to the Alps and even the Himalayas, wearing hideous clothes and a sweaty grimace, before pitching up, come midges, wind or rain, for another terrible night's sleep at a 45 degree angle.

I have done camping, my ground sheet has been hung up for good, and I now choose the pampered, more stylish life, thanks very much.

At least, I did . Unfortunately, having kids means repeating the tortuous cycle all over again, except that now I have to pretend to like braving the wild out-doors, while my miserable kids drag themselves along behind, building their characters, and wishing they could be watching telly or beating up the kids next door.

Or so I imagined. As it turned out, I was the only member of my family whose face fell at the mere mention of our first family camping trip this summer. Everyone else (The Husband and The Three Children) was deliriously excited about the idea, and couldn't start peg-bashing fast enough. Drat.

I tried gentle dissuasion (we can't take any games or books) and downright lies (there are wolves and snakes), but it was only when my 5-year-old came out with "Oh come on Mummy - you'll love it when you get there" that I finally relented: camping was on the cards, style and comfort or not.

But hang on - why not? Why can't camping be stylish? Why can't a girl bring a glass of wine and something fashionable with her into the hills? If Kate Moss can look divine at Glastonbury for a day or two, surely I could bring some glam to the Glens?

'Not likely', was The Husband's reaction to this suggestion, and it sounded like a challenge to me. I was game.

Stage one was acquiring some stylish camping gear, and my first port of call was to Millets, to arm myself with the most covetable camping gear of all: a flowery Cath Kidston tent, and matching sleeping bag. This had an immediately uplifting effect, making me suddenly very enthusiastic about our expedition - though this may have been more due to the 'purchasing something pretty' aspect, than the imminent camping it implied. Some elegant- ish plastic crockery, an inflatable pillow and an almost-fashionable wind-proof jacket, and I was all set.

Stage two, was packing my new, groovy rucksack. Being a lady who likes to pack beautifully, and to be prepared for all eventualities, this took a ridiculously long time. The Husband finished stuffing his weather-beaten bag with whatever came to hand in about 10 minutes, which left me very miffed, as he sat down in front of 'Extras' and I decanted bottles of facial wash, filled tiny jars with vinaigrette and seasoning, and foil-wrapped peppermint tea bags. Other essentials included a glossy magazine, a wine glass, ready-prepared chicken satay sticks, and cashmere socks. Good to go.

Stage three, The Camping Trip, started very well. Apart from being silly enough to bring a buggy for The Little One- which turned out to be not-quite-as-cross-terrain-as-all-that - we made it up and over a very sizeable, rocky hill on the Isle of Skye, and dropped down to the grassy bay below. No moaning, no squabbles, and no style-withdrawal symptoms yet.

Pitching the tent was another matter, and I wished I hadn't been so cocky about not needing to read the instructions. The wind was very strong, and I managed to push the frame through the wrong holes twice, before admitting defeat and getting The Husband to help me.

It looked fantastic. Utterly out of place, glaringly un-camouflaged, but undeniably pretty.

We were all starving after so much walking, so I set about lighting my new camping stove, and opening vast numbers of tins for the troops. My chicken had gone off during the long walk in the sun, and I gazed longingly at The Children's calorie-laden sausages, baked beans and instant mashed potato, as I munched on some wholly unsatisfying, though stylishly-presented, mixed salad and olive bread. The Husband was good enough to spare a sausage, but not without a 'what are you like?' eye-roll.

He wasn't quite so smug an hour later, when all of my attempts at glam-camping paid off: with The Children completely zonked out after their mammoth trek, I sat in the gentle, evening sunshine with my (chilled by the river) glass of rose. Time stood still. The Husband admitted defeat. After a nurturing face-pack to combat the elements, a cup of hot peppermint tea and a flick through this months's Vogue, I knew I had done it.

Yes, my bottom was quite uncomfortable, yes there was the odd midge flying about and yes, I would have quite liked a hot bath. But I was camping, and I really didn't hate it at all.