Glamping? No thanks
Everyone I know seems obsessed with the idea of glamping.
Now as I am not someone who likes to miss out (my FOMO is very real), I decided there must be something to it and therefore I better try it.
This has to be fun right?
Semi camping, semi not…cold and uncomfortable, but with a bed. No television but romantically reading my book by candlelight. The excitement for my 3 year old to sleep in a cupboard! All this COULD be a recipe for an amazing weekend, right?
I can officially tell you after finally trying it for a weekend, it seems like it is nothing more than another way of ripping off all of the overworked Londoners desperate for some fresh air.
br>We arrived at a working farm, I mean really working, and so sure were we this couldn’t be right (where were the fluffy bunnies and bouncing lambs?) that we left only to find out that it was indeed it.
Fine. So we returned. Fyi, my bitching and ranting had already begun. We were asked to park a good 10 minute walk from the tents – fine. But the pikey-looking showers were also 10 minutes from the tents…in the car park. I decided without my wet suit and 5 pairs of veruca socks on, I couldn’t even contemplate them. Wet wipes at the ready. Party pack of bleach at hand.
Look, honestly the tent was fine – nicely done, I understood the vibe.
But FIVE tents squished in a field with lopsided swings and a sandpit just about big enough for my daughters guinea pig didn’t appease my fury. Topped off with barbed wire put around the field, I told my husband in my ‘calm’ voice we would be leaving in the morning, albeit £300 poorer.
So that was my glamping experience: Cold, slightly dirty and disappointing.
The upshot is that I think if you are going to camp, then really camp.
Don’t pay anyone, find a field, put up a tent, build a fire and be at one with nature.
We are all too pathetic nowadays – we don’t need beds and duvets – we need hard ground and sleeping bags! Who’s coming? I think my South African husband thinks he has won this round…