THE TRUTH ABOUT CAMPING

Camp was instantly divided into the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’. At one end of the spectrum, Ollie Marriage – who arrived in his own VW California equipped for a Tiki-themed weekend jaunt to the moon. At the other, Mark Riccioni – who’d never done a day’s camping. Luckily, he was familiar with torture (camping’s long-lost cousin), having driven his genuine Ferrari racecar across Snowdonia.

For a lucky few, a selection of glampervans – a fantastically ironic golden Ford Nugget, VW Grand California and Mercedes Marco Polo – were available. Occupancy of these depended on two things: timeliness and luck. But with the warm, golden sun setting, we didn’t care where we slept. Fresh out of lockdown, we’d be happy with a bed of nails. So we did what everyone who has been to a festival does: got overly excited and drank some beer. Then gurned our way through a mountain of raisin cereal bars (useful for gluing your guts shut – a camping must) and raved around the RS6’s jazzy matrix taillights. All we needed was a smoke machine. Unfortunately, Tom Ford and his vape pipe wouldn’t arrive for another night.

But then the weather threw the kind of tantrum only a diabetic toddler could muster. Now, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in an elevated roof tent during a 45mph storm, but it’s genuinely terrifying. I actually thought the world was ending. And by morning, we all wished it had. Mother Nature drove a bulldozer through our happy garrison. Our Party Gazebo ended up looking like the Wright brothers’ first plane, tents turned to paddling pools and Jack Rix was blown across the car park when his airbed decided it didn’t want to be a mattress anymore and would rather live its life as a sail. Weirdly, Stig was unfazed. But this experience (and sideways, freezing rain) brought us together, made us adapt and compounded the memories. So if you’re ever low on banter, just camp. But remember to pack the supercars.