Travel: Why I waited 40 years to love British camping
I snuggled down in my sleeping bag, and wriggled my ten-year-old toes. I was far too excited to sleep, my Dad’s torch flicking signals on the canvas, fearful shadows urging me to stay in the tent. Joanna lay next to me, but she wasn’t asleep either. Both of us were eagerly awaiting midnight, so we could eat our Blue Riband biscuits and declare that we had experienced a real-life midnight feast. In the event, we wore ourselves out giggling well before the appointed hour, and I set my purple-faced alarm clock so we wouldn’t miss it, as we dozed off. …