BURNT WALL’S SAUSAGES AND UNRELENTING DAMP

CAMPING fills me, mostly, with fear. Childhood memories of school trips involving burnt Wall’s sausages, washing pans being cleaned with mud and the unrelenting damp that gets into your bones and never leaves.

My children, however, adore it and will not be persuaded that a trip to a Bed & Breakfast guarantees a better night’s sleep and superior eggs and bacon.

More than anything I can’t stand the expectation that because I once owned a Swiss Army knife I should be able to put up a tent, light a fire and fend off midges. As I frequently tell my wife — if she wanted Bear Grylls as a husband, she’d have to put up with the awful safari shirts and urine drinking.

Thankfully, my oldest son, now 17, has a preternatural ability to erect a complex six-man tent complete with sitting room and porch.

It leaves me in awe and wonder, as I stand there like a lemon holding another pole asking him where it should it go.

But for all my moaning, once the tent is up and the sun is shining and the beer is cold, I can see the appeal. We live in London and most of our pleasures are urban: restaurants, cinema and hot running water.

Camping is the antithesis of all that.

Last year, I visited DadFest in Devon, a summer festival for fathers and their children. I was dreading it, presuming it would be a collection of sad, single fathers, moaning into their real ale about their ex-wives.

I dragged my two youngest with me, Arthur, now eight, and Celia, now 12, who were also dubious about the enterprise.

But it was a blast. The fathers (most of them happily married) enjoyed the freedom of being outdoors with their children. The highlight was when one of them brought out a powerful telescope — the size of a small child. On this crystalclear night, standing in a field miles and miles away from any city, Arthur and I looked into it and saw Saturn with all its rings. It was completely magical.

My daughter spent all night with new friends toasting marshmallows on the open fire, while Arthur crawled into the tent and his onesie long after midnight.

Maybe tents are better designed than when I was a child or the sleeping bags better quality, but we all slept as well as if we were tucked up in a local B&B.

And maybe it was the fresh air — or the rings of Saturn still sparkling in our imagination — but breakfast cooked on the campfire was pretty tasty, too.