Why perfect holidays don't involve men

‘We need fairy lights,’ said Jools firmly.
We were having a summit meeting at the Bonkers House to discuss our forthcoming camping trip to Croyde in North Devon.
‘Fairy lights?’ I said weakly, pouring out more wine and breaking into another packet of hula hoops (Adrian away so low on shopping).
‘Absolutely. And parasols and pretty bowls. I’m thinking pink and orange as our theme. Have you got a pink flowery tablecloth?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘Good. Bring that. And that silvery tray with the tea lights on it. Don’t suppose you’ve got bunting?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Shame.’

Last time I went camping I was sixteen and madly in love with some nerd called Peter. A crowd of us went to the Yorkshire Dales and it was mighty minimal. Everything had to fit in or on or dangling from our rucksacks (including the tents). It rained the whole time and we spent the entire week trying to persuade the local landlords that we really were eighteen in order to get into the pub and get warm. I developed chilblains, flu and a taste for Theakstons Old Peculiar. I never did get off with Peter which, in retrospect, is probably a very good thing.

‘Help,’ I wailed to my friend Rachel later on the phone. ‘I think camping has changed since I last went. They said I need blow-up beds – and chairs – and fairy lights.’
‘I’ve got all that – come and get ‘em.’

So the next day James and I picked up Adrian from Tiverton Parkway (en route home from the Great British Beer Festival and surprisingly not as slaughtered as usual) and headed over to Rachel’s. I wish I could be as calm as Rachel (and she’s not even taking the happy pills). She was in the middle of supper, with three children AND guests but was she fazed? Not remotely. She plonked a glass of wine in my hand, sent James off to see the new piglets and went to rummage in the barn.
‘Do you need three mattresses?’
‘Nope, just two.’
‘What? Ron’s not going?’ She always calls Adrian Ron. Don’t ask.
‘Don’t be silly. He’s allergic to camping.’
He insists, of course, that he’s not. It’s just that, were he to camp, it would be deeply macho, halfway up a mountain, battling the elements camping. Modern camping is, he insists, too consumerist, too suburban, too middle-class, too irritatingly smug. I suggest this might be projection and he has the grace to look sheepish.

Anyhow, we left Rachel’s loaded with ‘essential’ gear – camping chairs, tables, solar powered lanterns and fairy lights, strap-on head torches, glo-sticks….
‘We seriously need all this?’
‘Absolutely.’

We departed Dulverton in convoy with the Killers blaring out. Four middle-aged women, two teenage girls and two ten year-old boys.
‘Rick doesn’t believe we’ll get the tents up,’ said Tracey.
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Jools.
It took an hour to pitch two huge tents (with a few breaks for tea and brownies) and then another hour to embellish our campsite to Jools’ satisfaction. Fairy lights festooned the wind-breaks, pink raffia parasols kept out the sun, the jugs and bowls and glasses were all perfectly colour-coordinated. And, yup, the sun was shining.

Someone handed me a glass of wine. Ah but this was fun. This wasn’t the tough hard trudge I remembered.

We wandered down to the beach and the waves were huge. We set up our pop-up tent and everyone (bar Tracey and I who felt we ought to look after base camp) plunged into the sea with body boards and surfboards.
As the sun sunk lower, the waves came in. A sense of warm satisfaction broke over me.
‘Time for sundowners,’ said Jools, dripping happily. And we cracked open another bottle.

A barbecue back at the campsite plus a huge jug of Pimms. The sun set red and rich over the sea and, as the moon rose huge and full over the hills, the fairy lights twinkled into action.

It was perfect. Just perfect. In fact, so perfect that it was worrisome. What was it? Ah yes. Nobody had moaned. Nobody had disagreed. Nobody had demanded we do things differently or ‘my way’.
‘What a fabulous day,’ said Maggie with a sigh.
‘So peaceful,’ said Tracey.
‘Why is that?’ I asked, still puzzled.
‘You really haven't figured it out?' said Jools.

'No men,’ said Maggie.

Just then James and Jack came hurtling back down the hill and tumbled into camp.
‘I’m faster than you are,’
‘No you’re not. I am.’

'Not.'

Jools raised an eyebrow in an 'I rest my case' sort of way. We smiled indulgently, leant back in our chairs and poured another Pimms.