Once in Dover, we had to collect the hired tent. It turned out to be not so much a tent as a military-style khaki marquee that reeked of creosote. Property of the Dover Marquee Company, who had stencilled their name in 12" high letters on the side of the canvas. On the first night, we discovered that there were a great many complicated guy ropes and I had to stand on my father's shoulders to attach them to the tops of the tall tent-poles. This tended to draw attention to us on the German campsites, where most of our genteel Continental neighbours had brightly coloured, stately pleasure domes.
Not long after this holiday, we were posted to the Far East, where my dad's flights mostly took place over the Borneo rainforest. I lived in dread of being woken by the sound of the curtains swishing open and a jolly announcement that we were going for a family jaunt in the jungle. Although we did escape that fate, there was the time we had to sleep in parachutes slung like hammocks in a WW2 pillbox on an island off the south coast of Singapore ......
This post was inspired by Penwren's wonderful photos of her vintage camping and hiking book, and magic sense of humour.