Staycation? Just think of all the antibacterial spray I’ll have to lug around

With lockdown easing, Charlotte Cripps looks at planning a family holiday with her two children but ends up camping in her garden

(Illustration by Amara May)

I’m planning a staycation at the end of summer – a UK getaway is far more likely than abroad. That means my usual trip to Ibiza is out of the window. I am going to have to swap the rustic villa in the mountains, lined with fig trees and sun, beach and big prawns, for a caravan in the Lake District. I have a look at some caravan parks online that Alex’s cousin runs. Are these caravans for real? Some of them look smarter than my two-bedroom flat and they are dog friendly.

A caravan would mean we'd be able to keep two metres away from everybody more easily than a hotel. Of course, I could do Airbnb, but I would have to clean all the surfaces inside the premises before I let the kids in. Just think of all the antibacterial spray I’ll have to lug around with me. That’s when I have a brainwave. How about camping? There is nothing to clean in a tent. Epping Forest here we come.

The kids have always wanted to do a bit of camping every since they watched the Peppa Pig episode where they put up a tent, make a campfire and watch an owl. My thoughts are always a bit darker when sleeping out in the open air. More Australian serial killer film Wolf Creek, in which three backpackers are hunted by a deranged psychopath in the Australian outback. But I don’t let that get in the way of a jolly kids' adventure. But I do wonder if we should try it out in the garden first?

My sister passes me her tent out of the front door as well as a couple of sleeping bags. “Happy camping!” she says as we drive 10 minutes back home. I want to look like I know what I’m doing but the reality is I have never erected a tent before.

It’s gloriously hot at the moment so what are we waiting for? The kids are so excited they have packed their entire wardrobe in rucksacks and bags. I keep explaining we are only going to the garden. I’m just getting the marshmallows out when my mum friend Mel calls me and says they have gelatin in them. I look at the crestfallen faces of the kids – but how can I feed them to my pescatarian children? What is gelatin anyway?

"It’s made from boiling up the skin, cartilage and bones from pigs and cows," she tells me. “Take a look at google images.” I’m horrified. I nearly throw up. This could put me off eating sweets for the rest of my life – if only. It’s a shocking picture and then a video. Oh god – is it OK just this once because I didn’t know? Ignorance is bliss. Yes I think as I put them in the picnic bag safely away from Muggles. The kids are jumping up and down with excitement as if they are going on a trip of a lifetime.

The kids are so excited they have packed their entire wardrobe in rucksacks and bags. I keep explaining we are only going to the garden

I manage to get the tent up but it just doesn’t look right. But does that matter? As long as its functional, and it doesn’t rain, we will be fine. I bath the kids and get them into their PJs and we all go outside. Muggles comes out too and chomps at a bone by the side of the tent. We get into bed, eat the marshmallows, and when the sugar high finally subsides, we close the tent door. The kids fall asleep just as its turning dark. I go inside for a few home comforts – even have a hot bath.

This is heaven – so peaceful. I just don’t think I could cope with the shared showers and verrucaville of a campsite bathroom.

I return to the tent when it’s dark and get into my sleeping bag next to them. Gosh this is wonderful. I look out at the night sky and the stars before zipping the door shut. It's strangely quiet in lockdown – if I close my eyes I could almost be in the countryside.

It must have been a few hours later that I woke up to hear water dripping on the tent. "Oh, its raining," I thought! I love that feeling of being cosy in a tent safe from the weather – but I hope the tent won't let the rain in? As I open the door, I realise it’s Muggles having a pee. “Oh god, how disgusting! For gods sake, there are millions of other places to pee in the garden – why on our tent?” I talk to the dog as if he is a third child. I totally forget that he doesn’t understand. I shut the door again, and Muggles, who I have outside with us to make me feel more safe starts barking uncontrollably at a fox in a hedge in the next-door garden.

I get up – it is now really cold outside – and try to quieten him down. He'll probably wake all of Lola’s friends with his barking. I panic. I get up and drag him inside the house but he keeps barking at the door, so I let him out again and settle him down. About 30 minutes later he’s digging a hole, the earth is being flung at the tent, and he’s growling and barking again.

The kids wake up freezing cold. “What is Goggles doing?” says Liberty, who thinks that is his name. It’s 5am and we move back indoors quickly. I’m sleep deprived and now have to entertain the kids three hours earlier than usual. That’s when I get my laptop and start fantasising about flights to Ibiza – but could we take my dad? I can see us all with face masks and latex gloves, sitting on a half-empty plane we’ve paid for through the roof because they can’t fill it. Anything is possible. Or is it just a pipe dream?