The winner
Ros puts her hand over the receiver. "She says she's not sure whether they take mums." Ros and I exchange quizzical looks.
The woman from the campsite is back on the line. "Sorry about that," she tells Ros, "it's groups and gazebos we don't take. It's just that we have had trouble with mums before - we find that they sit around drinking coffee while their kids run wild."
"But isn't that the whole point?" I say. Anyway, Ros secures the booking and we get on with our packing. We arrive and I smuggle my gazebo in, disguised as a play tent.
Cartmel Caravan and Camping Park, perfectly manicured, in full bloom and boasting its very own microclimate, is an idyll in the lesser spotted southern Lake District. And the loos are clean.
We pitch our tents and get the kettle on - did I make that sound too easy? - and the kids run wild. Actually, after a few excited laps of the field they decide to put on a talent show and begin practising. Over coffee we read the campsite rules. Organised games are not permitted and children must be kept under control at all times. We tell the kids to be less organised. They don't get it. We are definitely in control.
Cartmel is not only famous for its splendid 12th-century priory and its racecourse, but is also home to the Sticky Toffee Pudding Co, one of Rick Stein's food heroes. We make this a priority excursion.
The stroll into Cartmel is more than pleasant, with opportunities to play poohsticks on the bridge (built 1829), nip into the gallery to buy something to hang on your wall/neck, and for light refreshment in the heavily beamed Royal Oak. The village store turns out to be a gastronomic delight and we emerge with more than just sticky toffee pudding. The dads are arriving at the weekend - they are our excuse.
Back to camp for coffee. The children want to play "Harry Potter" and ask if they can go into the wood to collect wands. We discuss wet day plans: steam train to the Lakeside aquarium; Holker Hall, with motor museum (optional extra) and lunch opportunity; a steam train to Lakeside, from Hatherthwaite, this time with steamer boat trip on to Bowness; if it keeps raining, I don't think the Beatrix Potter centre is too far away. The kids are now shouting wildly as cows are blocking their escape route.
The kids return. They want me to be Professor McGonnigal. I'd prefer to do Defence against the Dark Arts but decide not to say anything.
Dry day plans include ... well, it's so lovely here that I reckon there's a lot to be said for just sitting around in a field all day drinking coffee while the kids flourish in their new-found freedom.
· Cartmel Caravan and Camping Park (01539 536270).
Melanie Horton has won two return flights to New York with STA Travel.
Keeping up appearances
Costa del Azahar, Spain
The first thing you notice about Camping Tropicana on the Costa del Azahar, before you get to grips with the nipple fountains and caged spider monkeys, is the extraordinary sense of order. The staff are all multilingual and flit from Spanish to French to English to German to Dutch, which can be a little tricky if you just want a token for the tumble drier. They also like rules:
Rule 1. Stop and step away from the vehicle!
(We have of course already stopped and are now studying a laminated site map and rule book.)
Rule 2. Collect a laminated site map and rule book from reception.
(Like your thinking!)
Rule 3. Choose your pitch. Select any three pitches from: yellow zone; blue zone; or green zone, unless marked with a white flag.
(Okay, this is workable.)
Rule 4. Pitches in the green zone bordered by a broken blue line can be selected only if: A. there are no free yellow zones or B. if marked with a white flag (see above).
(Ah ...)
Rule 5. If there are no free yellow, green or blue zones please select from a white zone (unless marked with a blue flag) in which case we are full!
(Right ...)
For us, Camping Tropicana is a pit-stop en route to Barcelona. For others it's an open air Ideal Home Exhibition. We are surrounded by elderly Dutch couples in caravans. Many, perhaps unaware that campsites tend to come with their own built-in floor, are busy laying linoleum. It seems tomorrow they are handing out rosettes for best turned-out pitch, with special awards for awning erection, tableware and light dusting beyond the call of duty. Competition's fierce: fridges to be hooked up, satellite dishes aligned, pot plants potashed, candelabras buffed.
A priapic plaster of Paris Bacchus in the shower block notwithstanding, evenings are uneventful at Camping Playa Tropicana. At 8pm everyone retires inside to watch satellite TV and charge their mobiles. We too abandon the night time's meagre offerings to dust down our thermarests and prune the basil plant. I'm holding out for best newcomer on a limited budget. My wife feels the judges won't look kindly on open air pant drying. I remain quietly confident.
Max Crisfield, Brighton
· Camping Playa Tropicana (+34 9644 12463, vayacamping.net).
Loving the 'C' word
Fraser Island, Australia
While holidaying in Noosa on Australia's Sunshine Coast, my boyfriend uttered the "C" word for the first time. We were enjoying a romantic beachfront dinner at the Season restaurant, when it slipped out: "Let's go camping!" I nearly choked on my pan-fried snapper. "Trust me, you'll love it," he added.
He said the same thing before he bought an Xbox. I ordered another bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir and changed the subject.
The next day, with my Jimmy Choos protruding from my rucksack, we were on a Greyhound bus to Hervey Bay, launch pad of most excursions to Fraser Island.
We opted for a three-day unguided group safari with Koala Adventures. In essence, we'd chosen to spend the next few days sharing camping equipment, food rations, and a four-wheel drive with a group of strangers.
I nearly pulled out when we were shown the pre-trip safety video, which included tips on the quickest way to manoeuvre a jeep from a sand dune, what to do when confronted by a hungry wild dingo, and the crunch - the best way to dig a toilet in the sand. In the space of a day, I'd gone from private en suite to DIY toilet facilities.
The Butchulla people - Fraser's original inhabitants - call the island K'gari, meaning paradise. It didn't take long to fathom why. We sped across empty beaches, swam in lakes and explored rainforests. At night we cooked and made merry beneath the stars. But what made the trip so special was our five fellow campers - a smorgasbord of nationalities, ages and characters. By the end of the trip we were like one big family, except we were happy and didn't want to part.
After three days I was ready to leave. There's only so much dunny-digging a Sheila can take. At least my stilettos came in handy.
Sarah Charsley, Brighton
· Koala Adventures (+61 7 4946 6446, koalaadventures.com).
The other lake district
Uganda
Four hours west of Kampala is a small town called Fort Portal. The Bunyuruguru crater lake district is a half-hour drive away, on the back of a motorbike, by pick-up truck or squashed with 26 other people into a minibus that seats 12.
Our first stop was Lake Nyabikere, where the CVK Hostel offers campsites or bandas (small roofed huts) with beds and mosquito nets from about £3. The water is safe and refreshing to swim in, the bird life astoundingly varied and the weather hot but not oppressively so. You can hire a canoe to explore the lake itself, or hike through the hills on various walks with or without a guide.
Lake Nkuruba is surrounded by tall trees. In an area with the highest primate density in the world, trees mean monkeys, lots of them. The babies swing from their mothers and look inquisitively at you from a few metres away. This theatre of nature is made all the sweeter by the knowledge that a few miles south people are being flown in to the national parks to pester the highly endangered mountain gorillas, for $500 an hour.
The Bunyuruguru lake district is genuinely idyllic. Word is getting out though, leading to a proliferation of hotels although not yet visitors, so being the only guests in B&Bs built for 60 people is a common and marvellous experience.
Josh Heller, Sheffield
· CVK Hostel (+256 7724 92274)
An American road trip
Rocky Mountain National Park
We've been road tripping for 10 days: living off restaurant gift-cards, free coffee and cool-box cream cheese. West from Kansas we headed straight to Vegas, dressed our best and drank dollar margaritas from plastic cups. Tonight, though, we push through dusk on cruise control and pitch our tent at Moraine Park campsite.
Morning, and we're woken by the whir of generators and the low hum of breakfast. There's a friendly distance between campers, a quiet camaraderie born of bear fear and the short-term pleasure of communal living. When an old guy arrives with a truck full of wood and ice, we get in line and buy.
In the afternoon it will rain so we jump into the car and make for the highest road. Everywhere signs plead that we stick to the path: "Keep off the tundra!" We canter higher, cameras in hand, gasping in the oxygen-lite air. Below us elk clump together. Black storms, hot from Kansas, stripe the horizon and threaten lightning. A ranger urges caution, but up here, where the trees grow sideways beside benevolent rocks, we believe ourselves untouchable and protected.
In the evening we entertain ourselves by building a fire on our allotted grill. We bake potatoes and Olathe corn in foil, eat yellow mustard with our sausages and drop rum into our coke. Past 10pm a father and his son smoke cigars into the night; parents sleep soundly by their kids and we, drinking together, survey the bigness of the sky.
Catherine Carter, London
· Moraine Park Campsite (nps.gov/romo/planyourvisit/camping.htm).
3,700 sq km to ourselves
Tanzania
An invitation from your 81-year-old mother-in law to go camping in the remote African bush might not be the ideal basis for a relaxing summer holiday. But Katherine is determined to make a special family visit to the malaria research station in rural Tanzania she ran with her late husband, Chris, in the 1950s. Tribes Travel is organising her trip and recommends staying at Babu's camp, in the Mkomazi game reserve in eastern Tanzania.
The visitors' book at the main gate reveals that our party of eight are the only visitors in the entire reserve of 3,700 sq km. There are no signposts and little else to distract you from the rusty-red dust tracks, straw-coloured bush with green tufts of acacia and baobab trees, the purple-black Pare Mountains and the big skies.
A walking safari in the intense equatorial heat with the camp manager, Seif, is fascinating. Animal tracks and droppings provide clues to the presence of giraffe, dik-dik and impala. There are 450 recorded species of birds in this area and, unlike in the bigger national parks, the larger animals are more reticent about performing for tourist cameras. We find an exquisite river frog in our loo, a hornbill calls at us from a nearby yellow-barked acacia tree, a giant brown moth sleeps in an empty whisky glass.
Babu's is sensitive to its environment but retains an atmosphere of safari elegance. Pre-dinner drinks are selected from a temporary bar at the foot of a giant baobab tree and taken around a crackling campfire. Dinner itself is superb, particularly as there is no evidence of a kitchen or a chef.
As Katherine recounts tales of taking blood samples from Masai warriors, we begin to get a feel for what it might have been like for her and Chris, more than 50 years ago, working in isolation in such a beautiful but forbidding wilderness.
Stuart Heaver, Whitstable, Kent
· Tribes Travel (01728 685 971, tribes.co.uk). Babu's camp (babuscamp.com).
Footloose and disco-free
France
It was all thanks to Hemingway. That is the best thing about being a literature student. Despite bucketfuls of debt, our holiday plans can still be decided by a well-turned phrase. For me that phrase told of "chicory-fragrant café au lait", sipped slowly by the sea meadows of France's Midi. I called my friend Dylan. "We have to go to the south of France. I'm reading a book and it says there are women there with serene dark faces and smooth skin as sleek as seals."
"I'm not camping in France. I was 10 last time and the discos made me cry," he replied. "No discos, I promise."
Dylan's second clause was that we encounter mountains along the way, so we devised a route that would begin in Aquitaine, arcing through the Pyrenees and ending along the Canal du Midi in the Mediterranean fishing port of Agde. Flying into Bordeaux, we rented a car and drove south, the roads plunging us deep into the Gascogne regional park then taking us to the coastal village of Messanges, 70km north of Biarritz.
We raised our tent that evening amid the sticky pines of the Landes forest, in a little disco-free campsite attached to the farm Chez Cazou. Our first night's sleep came easily after two flagons of Madame Cazou's rosé wine. Days were spent wheeling blissfully through shady woods and grilling fat sardines on empty swaths of silver beach.
From there, we wove our way south and into the heart-stopping crooks of the Pyrenees, arriving at our next campsite, Les Tilleuls, just outside the mountain village of Gèdre. The surrounding views of the Campbiehl and Cirque de Galvanie were celestial.
On we travelled, via the pink city of Toulouse, towards Agde. Stopping outside the local boatyard at Camping Periniere, we bought food at the market. A wondrous end to a holiday, until we decided one evening to take a swim at the naturist resort of Cap d'Agde. "Come on, we've hiked the Pyrenees, this will be easy," I said, suddenly noticing the advanced age of our fellow bathers. "Sleek as seals you said ... " cried Dylan, drowned out by the disco behind us.
Leo Wallace, York
· Chez Cazou (+33 5 58 48 50 47); Les Tilleuls (+ 33 5.62.92.48.92 ).
Rain won't stop play
New Forest, Hampshire
We are smart campers. We consult the five-day weather forecast. Carefully. We are going to follow the sunshine route south to the New Forest. Two canny adults and five teenagers in a van, we nod our heads wisely and tap the sides of our noses at holiday traffic heading north.
We are pitching our tent in Hollands Wood, a Forestry Commission site near Brockenhurst. It is raining unremitting sheets. I can see a stripy windbreak close by, behind which stands a man with a can of Strongbow and behind him is the Taj Mahal of all dome tents. Strongbow man is getting comfortable for our tent-raising entertainment. No one takes charge as we manically bend and pop the springy tent poles.
We are awake under the dome and listening to the rain. It sounds like a riff: soft notes of wind through leaves, staccato pricks of rain, thudding crescendo, gradually quieter.
On day two we hire bikes in Brockenhurst. The teenagers have reluctantly pulled on an assortment of waterproof gear, the smallest boys wearing man-size waterproof trousers that make their legs look short and pedalling tricky. On the forest trails we switch between easy inclines to free-wheeling downhill. There are tunnels of oaks, ash and beech. When the sky turns grey it contrasts with the lush, vibrant green all around us.
Put this shade of green in a paint pot and you could call it August green or English green. But we are soaking wet and a bit miserable so there are other words to describe it.
Alison Miller, Bury St Edmunds
· Hollands Wood Caravanning and Camp Site (01590-622967).
And the dog came too
Lizard peninsula, Cornwall
"He doesn't look the sort of chap to go camping," observed my friend Maureen after a two-hour acquaintance with my newish partner, Phil. However, it was sunny and the Lizard Peninsula beckoned. Rolo could come too, camping being a canine-friendly option.
I collected together tent, camping kitchen, air bed, pegs etc. Phil arrived with some very fine wines and a large quantity of paper napkins. And golf clubs. I remembered the whisky, matches and washing up bowl ... but omitted to bring wellies.
We arrived at our campsite to be met by the cheerful owner who asked if I would like him to buy me some wellies in Redruth. I laughingly dismissed this kindness and asked for directions by foot to Kennack Sands.
We had yet to make camp and I had a large tent and a rather large novice camper on my hands. However, Phil soon became childishly excited and tackled tent pegs and guide ropes with enthusiasm. The bed was inflated, table and chairs set out, tea made - and the monsoon commenced.
We discovered the sanctuary of the Cadgwith Cove Inn and a magnificent fish stew washed down with Doom Bar bitter. The next morning Rolo and I set off to explore Ruan Minor, a hamlet of 25 houses, not to be confused with the metropolis of Ruan Major (50 houses).
Cornwall did not disappoint - we were fortified by Annie's pasties and Gear Farm pizzas. A day of sunshine enabled Rolo and me to walk along the coastal footpath from the Lizard to Coverack, a distance of 11 miles. Phil covered a similar distance on Mullion golf course. And we celebrated our last night in gale-lashed Kernow with a sumptious feast cooked by Phil, on a gas burner, inside the tent, washed down with some of that rather fine wine.
Hazel North, Portland, Dorset
Mini-camping
Holland
Mini-camping is the perfect holiday for those who seek peace and relaxation rather than mass entertainment and structured activity. These small sites are usually on farms (boerderijcamping) or in large private gardens.
At Op den Diesdonk near Eindhoven we camped at a small farm in flat, traffic-free cycling country. Cycle paths criss-cross through fields of maize, along well signposted networks. De Groote Peel national park is nearby. There was a playground for children, trampolines, and a field of ponies and horses next to the camp.
Further north and east near the lovely market town of Oldenzaal we camped at Erve Molman mini-camp. The Scoholten family live in a gleaming new farmhouse and offer the old farmhouse as a sitting and dining room for campers. The charming old town of Ootmarsum is a 10km cycle away through deep woods and glorious countryside and we rode into Oldenzaal for the Monday market.
Despite more than a thousand sites being listed in the Kamperen guide, available from VVV tourist offices and Vekabo.nl, mini camping is a well-kept secret. One that's worth being in on.
Shelley McAlister, Isle of Wight
