Compromise, as everyone knows, is the key to a harmonious relationship, especially on holiday – and so God invented glamping. OK, so a horsebox sounds about as glamorous as a portaloo, and, unless you are a pony-mad eight-year-old, the proposition of camping in one isn't likely to get a girl's heart cantering. But, park the horsebox in a flower-filled meadow, kit it out like a Toast photoshoot and give it a cute name – and you've got a retro-romantic-mini-break-on-wheels. After a few seasons on the festival circuit, the Lovestruck's rock'n'roll days are behind it as its creators have a new baby, so it has been put out to grass by a pond at Swallowtail Hill Farm, near Rye in East Sussex.
Farmers Sarah and Chris Broadbent, custodians of the Lovestruck, couldn't have been more welcoming; they escorted us with great cheerfulness over their fields, our luggage in a wheelbarrow, especially as we had arrived – like inconsiderate city folk – at gone midnight and they had to get up in a few hours to feed the animals. Guided by the light of a torch and thousands of stars, we were definitely on our own (sleeping in a field a few feet from lots of strangers has always seemed to me to be just one of the dafter contradictions of camping).
I have distinctly unfond memories of caravanning (we didn't camp: the very word makes my mum pull her something-mouldy-at-the-back-of–the-fridge face). On one particularly doomed holiday, my dad packed the car to go home more times than you might have said we had hot dinners during our stay, had my mum not pulled the knobs off the hob on first use; every time you tried to use anything, a lump of 1970s plastic would come off in your hand. Happily, I can report there is nothing as unlovely as laminate in the Lovestruck – even the curtain rails are made from bits of driftwood. (Yup, curtains. Pretty gingham ones. In a horsebox.) By candlelight it was as cosy as a horsebox can be and we were snug as bugs – which I was trying NOT to think about, given our proximity to the pond – in the little bed above the driver's cabin.
One bonus of arriving in the middle of the night is the surprise of finding yourself somewhere absolutely lovely in the morning. We were woken by the croaking of frogs and sunshine streaming through the horses' little windows. The temptation to ramp up the Rosy Lee in the decor has been wisely resisted – a couple of stained-glass windows just the right side of kitsch. The bench in the "living area" can be used as a second bed, but – as the name suggests – the Lovestruck is meant for two: kids could sleep there, but they'd have to be old enough for the pond not to be a worry.
Our welcome pack contained all the essentials for a goodlifer's breakfast: all organic, natch. The eggs – from the farm hens – deserve a special mention: the yolks as bright and yellow as the buttercups all around us. There's a state-of-the art tripod burner (made somewhere like Norway, where they know about these things) and an armoury of long-handled implements for the boy scout in your life and – and I'm my mother's daughter on this – there's everything the fussiest glamper could demand: a wood-burning outdoor shower (it takes 45 minutes to heat up – but, hey, what's the rush?); organic products; and compost loo cabins with chirpy (and possibly unnecessary) instructions. There are two other yurts in an adjoining field, so at most you might have to share with a couple of families.
Finally, after cooking and washing – it's amazing how long these things can take – we were ready to explore this corner of East Sussex. Our day took us from the picturesque cobbled lanes of Rye, with its historic church, and maze of antique and tea shops and the sea-mist-shrouded expanse of Camber Sands, as crowded as a Victorian seaside postcard (except with a whole load more flesh on show), its endless skies dotted with colourful kites to the eerily beautiful isolation of Dungeness, its horizon surreally punctured by two nuclear power stations and two lighthouses. Rye - the inspiration for E F Benson's fictional town of Trilling - has attracted an impressive list of literary luminaries, while the bleak beauty of the Romney marshes continues to draw artists. We made a pilgrimage to Lamb House, home to Henry James for a period (familiar to readers of Colm Toibin's elegant Booker-shortlisted The Master), followed by a visit to filmmaker Derek Jarman's much-photographed Prospect Cottage, with its strangely pretty shingle garden, in Dungeness and a quirky studio displaying local artists' work.
Despite tempting restaurant recommendations, journalistic duty – and the glorious weather – dictated a barbecue (Sarah had delivered a carnivorous feast). By chance, one of the neighbouring farms was holding a charity party, so, as we dined under the stars, we were treated to what felt like a private son et luminaire – fireworks and cover versions with a backing chorus from the frogs in the pond beside us. Who'd have thought a weekend in a horsebox could be so romantic.
Visitors can try their hand at various activities from tractor-driving to archery, but the next day we lazed about like happy cows in our meadow. We were rewarded by another aerial display, this time by the two resident swallows and their young, swooping and twisting as if they were staging a recreation of the Battle of Britain, the 70th anniversary of which was being commemorated a few miles along the coastline at Folkestone.
Before we – reluctantly – left, I had a peak inside the luxury yurts. They have beds – made out of driftwood, naturally. Beds. In tents. I might even be persuaded to try canvas next time. Amen to glamping.
• There is a two-night minimum stay at the Lovestruck (thelovestruck.co.uk), costing from £190. Book through canopyandstars.co.uk
