Roughing it

So the Glastonbury Festival is as popular as ever, despite the vagaries of the English weather and the spartan conditions. The Somerset countryside is once again under siege from thousands of rock fans flocking to see their favourite bands.

I've never been to the festival, and it's certainly not on my bucket list. I steer well clear of it for all sorts of reasons:

1) I don't enjoy camping
2) I keep away from drugs
3) I don't like staying up late
4) I get nervous in large crowds
5) It's no fun wading through mud
6) I don't want to be rained on
7) I dislike long queues for awful food and squalid toilets
8) I'm likely to be so far from the stage I can barely hear the music
9) I don't like being surrounded by litter
10) I prefer to listen to CDs in the comfort of my own home

I've only been to an outdoor rock festival once, and that was the Isle of Wight festival in 1969, which featured Bob Dylan, the Who and 29 other bands, most of them now long-forgotten.

I can remember very little of the music, partly as I say because of the distance from the stage, partly because I spent so long queuing for food, partly because I was exhausted and sleeping. So even without taking drugs I managed to miss most of it. Rather a waste of the admission charge, which no doubt was astronomical.

As I've explained before, I haven't been camping since I was 13, when I went to a Scout camp and was solidly rained on for a fortnight. Everything was swimming in mud, the tents were leaking, my clothes were permanently damp, and I couldn't wait to get home again.

Some people may enjoy roughing it for a few days, but I think I'll stick to my domestic comforts and all mod cons.

Pampering required

I do like my comfort as I get older. Gone are the days when I would put up with spartan, rough-and-ready conditions, telling myself it was much more fun and much more "real" than pampered luxury.

It's a very long time since I went to rock festivals in fields swimming in mud and litter, shivering in a leaky tent and joining endless queues for food, drink and toilets. Nowadays I'll only go to a gig in a warm indoor venue with proper seating and toilets that don't mean a wait of 20 minutes. Or alternatively I'll stay at home in even greater comfort and listen to a few CDs.

Likewise I've never been camping since a disastrous experience at the age of 13 when I went to a two-week Boy Scout camp in Yorkshire and it rained solidly for the whole fortnight. I was soaked and miserable from start to finish and couldn't wait to return home. Any suggestion of camping since then has filled me with horror and met with a prompt and unshakable refusal.

For several years I lived in a damp, dismal, under-heated bedsit lacking any mod cons and so dispiriting I hesitated to invite anyone round. I spent as much time as I could in more appealing places like museums and art galleries. What a relief it is now to be in a warm, cosy house where visitors are welcome.

I used to cycle everywhere as a teenager, but I'm no longer prepared to be freezing cold, deluged with rain, splashed by passing cars or insulted by angry motorists. Not to mention the time it takes to get anywhere. I prefer to be in a car with a roof over my head, cocooned in warmth and moving at a steady clip.

I'll leave others with greater resilience to enjoy rugged lifestyles. A bit of pampering is more to my taste.

Camping it up

Jenny has always had a yen for camping but ever since my hellish camping experience as a teenager, I've been dead against it. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.

My grim memory surfaced when I heard of the sudden surge in the number of UK campers - up by 7 per cent, particularly among women - which is reflected in the growth of camping and caravan sites here in Northern Ireland. In fact Millisle on the Ards Peninsula is quite disfigured by the acres of caravans nudging the shoreline.

But nights under canvas aren't for me. As a tender 13 year old Boy Scout, I was persuaded to spend two weeks camping in Yorkshire, and what a mistake that was. It rained non-stop for a fortnight so we were squelching around Glastonbury-style in thick mud. All the tents leaked and kept us sodden. The food was inedible and impossible to cook properly. There was nothing whatever to do. And the scoutmaster was lurking in the background looking for dishy boys he could cuddle up to. Was I glad to pack up and get back to civilisation.

Yes I know tents and caravans these days are supposed to be quite luxurious and element-proof but I'm just not going to risk it. I'm used to hotel bedrooms with all mod cons and en suite bathrooms and I won't give them up without a fight.

The problem we have here is that most of the roads are still single carriageway and in the summer it's common to be stuck in a long line of cursing motorists following a nonchalant caravan that's trundling along at a steady 30 mph. Of course caravan buffs are entitled to their holiday of choice like the rest of us, but maybe if they hit the road at dawn (or midnight) and not at midday it might boost their public image a little.

But really, why spend your well-earned holiday leave roughing it in a field when you could be standing on the balcony of your 4 star hotel room gazing at say, the Mediterranean? I'm sure such spartan, rough-and-ready living is very environmentally sound and does Margaret Beckett a power of good, but it's just not my cup of tea.