Dear reader...

SORTING THROUGH A cupboard recently, I rediscovered our old family tent. It was neatly rolled and packed into its bag, stored away with the numerous paraphernalia of camping holidays: striped chairs; a gingham-topped table; enamel stove and saucepans; all of them made with folding handles or detachable parts, designed to take up minimal space during travel. Regardless of their compact forms, I marvel at the amount of equipment before me.

Untying the cord at the top of the bag, the familiar odour of the tent’s thick, lime-green canvas pervades the air. It is an evocative smell, earthy and slightly fusty, bringing back memories of cooking in the rain, the sound of footsteps trampling across the groundsheet and the blue-tinged flicker of the gas lamp.

Putting the whole thing together was always a series of tests. First was the shuffle across the grass to check for dips; particularly underneath the sleeping compartment. Next was the assembly of the frame; slotting together a complex structure of poles over which the canvas was eventually lifted. Finally, the stretching of the guy ropes to anchor the whole structure in place.

Yet despite the basic nature of our holiday accommodation, it also had some surprisingly homely touches: every window was decorated with a set of bright floral curtains in shades of lemon and orange, and there was even a little matching canvas store, with a zipped door, to sit beneath the stove. But what I loved most were the pockets stitched onto the walls of the bedroom; a private space where I could hide away the day’s treasures: a delicate shell or a piece of driftwood; sometimes a cheery seaside postcard.

I will pack the tent away again for now, but I wonder if maybe the time has come to enjoy another holiday, camping out under the stars.