There is camping, and there is glamping.
I’m definitely a convert to the latter, being a welcome amalgam of glamour and camping – not always two descriptors that go together.
Good riddance to the days of rain dripping through seams, flapping nylon, guy wires twanging loose, flat airbeds and unopened cans of Heinz Beans exploding lethally in the campfire.
Indeed, the last Starfish camping expedition ended tragicomically in a wild spring tempest, our mangled, three-man pup tent blown helter-skelter about a sopping Dongara seaside holiday park.
Glamping is many cuts above: five-star sumptuousness snugly sheathed in taut expensive canvas, surround by luxury amenities, and set in beautiful natural environs.