Driving in, you half expect a group of kids in neckerchiefs to jump out and demand a password. Instead, you get a gravelly lane and the smell of damp grass—the official scent of childhood adventure. It’s the kind of place where your sat nav says “You have arrived,” and you immediately think, “Did I? In a tent?”
The campsite is not a five-star hotel. It’s more like a friendly, slightly muddy uncle who lets you sleep in his shed, but also brings you bacon sandwiches. There’s no fluffy robe, but there is a fire pit—which is basically the same thing, just smokier.
The Tents: Where Dads Become Engineers
Setting up camp here is a spectator sport. You’ll see a dad wrestling with a tent pole, muttering, “It went in there last year, I swear.” Meanwhile, the kids are already off finding sticks, because apparently, sticks are the only currency that matters in scout land.
The ground is surprisingly forgiving, but you’ll still wake up with a pebble-shaped dent in your back. That’s not a complaint—it’s a memory. You can’t buy that kind of authenticity at a Premier Inn.
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