Why does it always rain when you go camping? We had 10 soggy days in a windswept field in Cornwall. And they call this pleasure! The only thing that kept me going was my morning tramp through lashings of mud to the campsite tv room where I could watch the Olympics while nursing a cappuccino, the only bit of warmth in a five mile radius. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bitter but I never want to travel in a mini bus that doesn’t go faster than 60mph, for seven hours, ever again or share my tent with a family of snails or attempt to wash my poonani under the curious gaze of a family of hairy Germans. Still, we had some fun: we nearly got blown off a cliff while rock climbing, drowned in a vicious rip tide and murdered in our blow up beds by a seven year old girl from the tent next door who was a bit barking – probably high on Spangles or something – and who kept trying to get into bed with us. For me, the high point was the campsite Mini Olympics which we staged out of boredom one night. The slow bicycle race was outstanding. I was disqualified for screaming but outshone all in the freestyle dance-off which weirdly attracted all the campsite kidlets a la Pied Piper but with banging techno in place of the creepy pipe. Rod, the campsite owner took umbrage at our choice of music and only some serious arse-licking by Dirk prevented us from being ejected. �