This page offers a gently comic reflection titled A Tent, A Cough, and Questionable Life Choices, a small chronicle of camping misadventures across Britain and beyond. It follows the sort of trips undertaken with more optimism than sense, damp mornings, dubious health, and the stubborn belief that pitching a tent in another country will somehow be character‑building. It’s a wry look at the way we rebrand discomfort as “experience,” convincing ourselves that the mud, the cold and the poor decisions were all worth it, and that we’d probably do it again despite knowing better.
A Tent, A Cough, and Questionable Life Choices
I sometimes wonder whether the British instinct for camping is a form of national self‑punishment disguised as leisure. People elsewhere book villas, sip cocktails, and glide through life with a sense of ease. We, on the other hand, voluntarily zip ourselves into damp nylon cocoons and call it “a break”.
Have I ever been camping? Oh yes. I’ve camped in all four of the home nations, which is to say I’ve willingly slept outdoors in every available weather system the North Atlantic can throw at a human being. I’ve pitched tents in Brittany, Normandy, the Loire, and the Dordogne, all lovely places, if you ignore the fact that I was essentially living like a medieval pilgrim although with a better sleeping bag.
My crowning achievement, though, was taking a tent and camping gear on a plane to Lisbon , capital of Portugal. Twice. As if once wasn’t enough. The second time was 1998 and I was so unwell, probably pneumonia, but who’s counting, that I barely managed to drag myself onto the flight back to the UK. Nothing says “holiday memories” quite like shivering on a Portuguese campsite, wondering whether this is how it ends.
If you asked me whether I’d do it again, the answer is probably yes. Not because it’s sensible. Not because it’s enjoyable in any conventional sense, but because there’s something deeply, stubbornly British about camping.
The national belief that suffering in a mosquito infested field builds character, that a holiday isn’t a holiday unless you’ve battled the elements, and that self‑inflicted discomfort is practically a patriotic duty.
It’s a kind of self‑harm, really, the sort we collectively shrug about, like queueing in the rain or voting for Brexit, and still, we pack the tent.
Further Reading
The Shape of Now: Meta Hub – This article is part of the Shape of Now Meta Hub, a curated collection exploring culture, politics, identity, and the present moment..