Dib dib don't

Why do we subject our kids to the misery of sodden, smelly camping trips with the Scouts? Could it be because they love it?
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Ever since my son became a Scout four years ago I have bought the line that this
century-old movement is a very good thing for boys, as he buzzes off on wide games, woodman's courses (they learn to chop up trees, make posts for fences) and regular camps. In fact my son's troop is booming so much it has had to move the annual meeting to a bigger venue.

But right now the doubts are coming thick and fast.

For the second year running I'm starting to question what is character-forming or even much use about spending 10 days under canvas in the middle of boggy fields as the rain pours down relentlessly.

(Yes, I note, by the way that Blacks Leisure has just reported a boom in sales of tents and outdoor equipment as people trade down to cheaper holidays. But I bet the weather will soon dampen their resolve.)

The early days of scouting, celebrated last year, showed the first Scouts to be happy campers in Edwardian summers on Brownsea island. This year as I walked up to the summer campsite on parents' day we were met by a silent boy, standing at the gate, looking traumatised. He said he was waiting for his parents.

When we got to the top of the hill, his glum face began to make sense. The scales fell from my eyes. The clumps of patrol tents and cooking fires looked like a refugee camp, spread out under a grey sky. Wet clothing fluttered on makeshift bits of string in a vain attempt at getting them dry.

The campfires smoked as wet wood could barely be coaxed into life, and a series of fierce intermittent rainstorms broke over our heads. They'd been on an 18-mile hike the day before and some of the youngest boys were clearly dispirited.

Worst of all, the central camp area was roped off because it had turned into a sea of mud. All the boys had been forced into Wellington boots. Some of the tents were teetering on the edge of mini bogs. An older boy was ill in bed.

There didn't seem much scope for the morale-raising jolly evening campfires and sing-songs in this climate. Later, at 6pm, we parents were entertained to a sort of campsite cocktail party, with plastic cups of wine and bowls of olives, while stews semi-cooked on the patrol fires. A chilly north-west wind was blowing across the hill. It was all very British. I tried to entice my son out for a proper meal. But he refused, he was dashing around feeding fires.

I know, the stock response is that boys like this sort of thing, they don't notice the discomfort, they like being free to roam, build fires, go cycling down exhilarating country lanes with barely a tractor to contend with, and try out activities such as riding and sailing.

Not having to wash for 10 days is, apparently, a relief. The good thing about this camp, my son told me, was that there were no midges, or horse flies, only ants. A local farmer assured me he'd seen them happily trekking away, ignoring the weather. The village shop reported a brisk trade in sweets and crisps, from cheery boys.

All I know is that for the second year an extremely rainy July has made summer camping, with no fallback of proper fixed shelter, an ordeal. My son, by the way, has just returned with a suitcase of damp clothes, ponging to high heaven. I asked him what it felt like to be home.

"Weird," he replied. "Everything is so easy." With that he went, voluntarily, for a deep bath (leaving it filthy), fell on a roast dinner, collapsed in bed and slept around the clock.

I'm just relieved he's back in good health before we go on a proper holiday. With no tents involved.

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