The first time I ever went camping was to Glastonbury Festival with an ex-boyfriend and his mates. It was an eye-opening experience for the young and innocent 18 year old that I was.
The last time I went camping it was also to Glastonbury Festival: it was the year that Coldplay was headlining (for the second time) and I didn’t really like them much way back then; it was the year that lightning struck the Pyramid Stage and halted proceedings for a matter of hours; the year hundreds of festival goers had their tents and belongings washed away in a scene of devastation comparable only to the Apocalypse (perhaps). Our tent had only survived as it was pitched on a rather steep incline which meant that the deluge of water raining down on the site simply didn’t hang around long enough to cause a problem. The steep incline also meant that if you happened to fall asleep (fairly unlikely given that it was Glastonbury Festival) you would most definitely wake in a ball at one end of the tent.
Clearly these experiences have left their mark and whilst I wasn’t an enthusiastic camper before the great storm of 2005, after it I was decidedly anti spending any time in a shelter made of nylon fibres. Last weekend though, I went camping.