Oh, how we all laughed! Actually nobody laughed. Dad was banging his head monotonously on the steering wheel (at least he wasn’t banging mums head on the steering wheel) and we were contemplating life as part of a one-parent family. Mum was pretending not to exist. Well you would, wouldn’t you?

We did eventually make it to Loch Ness and my parents did eventually start speaking to each other again. Nine months later I had another baby sister. Sandy has also inherited our taste for travel. As a research doctor and lecturer she travels the world, attending symposiums and presenting research papers. This has helped her to amass the finest collection of Hard Rock Café commemorative cocktail glasses known to man, and I am very proud of her.

In the following few years we discovered much of Britain together as a family. Mostly it was by way of days out at the weekend, blackberry picking, and picnics in the gardens of historic houses. That sort of thing. Dad changed his job and joined a food distribution company as a salesman, which meant a pay rise and a company car. We also had a couple of summer holidays at holiday camp in North Wales, which I particularly enjoyed. I learnt to swim one year and earned my first ever “certificate of achievement”. I was seven years old and I still have the certificate – is that anally retentive or what? I put the certificate on my bedroom wall and when we went back the following year I pretended I still couldn’t swim so that I could get another one. Sad but true.

However much fun these times together were, you could always tell that Dad wanted something more. Something just a little bit different. Something really, really foreign.

One fateful day, dad came home late from work. On the back seat of the car were a big canvass sack and a collection of aluminium poles.

“And this is what exactly?” enquired Mum.

“It’s a tent darling. Family sized.”

Clearly this was not the fully automatic washing machine that the overworked mother of four had been hoping to get with Dads annual bonus.

“Bill, can I have a word with you please. Away from the children.”

There followed a hushed but heated debate off to one side.

“Where did you get it?”

“One of my customers let me have it cheap. His kids are too old to want to go camping anymore, but he says they had lots of fun weekends away all over the place”.

“I don’t care how cheap it is, take it back. I am not going to spend my weekends sleeping on wet grass, watching my kids going rigid with boredom in some field in the middle of nowhere, while you and me slowly go blue from hypothermia. Apart from that I hate insects, you know I do.”

Dad was not to be deterred. “OK we will try it out for one weekend and if you are still not happy, it goes back. Fair enough?”

“Oh come on mum. I’ve never been camping before”. John had appeared at Dads side. Like the last minute arrival of General Blucher’s men at the battle of Waterloo, victory was clutched from the jaws of defeat.

“Ok. Well try it. But if I get the flu, it goes back .No discussion”.

The new tent was taken into the garden for an immediate trial run. Dad’s customer had given him directions for assembly scribbled on the back of a beer mat, so it took us ages to put the thing up. Finally it was done. The bloody thing took up most of the garden, and was the size of a Victorian summer house. The roof was so high, only mum and dad could reach it.

That night the five of us slept in the garden under piles of blankets. We loved it. Mum called us a bunch of bloody idiots and slept in her own bed. But being mum, she was there for us first thing in the morning, with bacon, eggs, tea and toast. You need a good start to the day when you’re sleeping outdoors, she advised.

The next Bank holiday weekend we went camping in the Lake District. What a beautiful place for our first camping expedition! The drive to the campsite, just North of Lake Windermere was just breathtaking. Spectacular views of mountains, lakes and rivers appeared round every corner. The buildings and houses of our village were all of brick – the older buildings blackened by decades of chimney smoke. The only building made of stone was the Town Hall.

Up here the buildings were made of Lakeland stone. The blue – green rock giving the area a unique otherworldly appearance. The place was gorgeous!

Mum need not have worried about either boredom or hypothermia. We were lucky with the weather and spent an idyllic weekend roaming the hills around the campsite, fishing in the streams for tadpoles and sticklebacks. The campsite was very well organised and clean. Plenty of shower and toilet blocks strategically placed around the site. There was even a fish and chip shop, so mum didn’t have to cook on the Saturday night.

The best thing for families was the evening entertainment. The campsite owners had turned a collection of old farm buildings into a little village; with a shop, village pub and kids club. In the evenings the adults could have a beer knowing that the kids were safe next door, being entertained by an amateur magician dressed as Robin Hood, with a female assistant dressed as Maid Marion. We had a brilliant weekend. As for camping holidays, we were hooked.

The weekend had been an unqualified success. Even mum had to admit that she had enjoyed herself and couldn’t wait to do it again. It was after we had returned from this first successful expedition that dad revealed the true intent behind buying the tent.

The year was 1969. Man had just stepped on the moon. My future wife had just been born in the far, Far East of the Soviet Union. We were about to become known round Europe as the Quasimodo family.

Dad had read an article in the Sunday newspaper supplement about a family that had spent six weeks one summer touring France and Spain in a caravan. It sounded fantastic!

The heroes of the story had made their way southwards at a leisurely pace, travelling a few hours a day. They would stop for lunch at any quaint country village that took their fancy. Or sometimes they would buy fresh cheese, pate and wine from the many farm shops that lined the route, then picnic by a river.

We could do that, thought dad.

Sunday dinner was a traditional affair in our home – roast chicken, roast potatoes, chestnut stuffing, vegetables and gravy. All eaten off the best crockery with the family seated on carver chairs around the imitation priory style dining table. Attendance was compulsory.

It was at the end of Sunday dinner that dad revealed his master plan for our main holiday in September – we were going to go camping in Spain. The announcement was timed to give dad the maximum amount of moral support, i.e. all four kids, and mum the least chance of having any possible objections listened to in any kind of fair or impartial manner.

He briefly outlined the article that he had read. Then he waxed lyrically about how great it would be for the children. A real education. One long geography field trip.

Dessert (usually apple pie and ice cream – my favourite) was abandoned as dad produced an atlas from under his carver chair and we all gathered round to look at our proposed route.

South via London to the coast, over to Paris, and South once more to Perpignan and the border with Spain.

From there it would be on to Barcelona. Our destination was to be a campsite recommended in the newspaper article right on the coast, just a few miles further on from the Catalan capital, by a village called Castelldefels.

And best of all, right, dad had to take his vacation in September. So we would miss the first two weeks of the new school term. Fantastic or what?????

All four kids were bouncing up and down with excitement. Not so mother. She was looking at all the lines and squiggles on the map with nothing short of despair in her eyes, in the full knowledge that she would be the unwilling navigator once again.