“You’re a real princess,” my husband jokingly accused.

These words were not a reference to any bruising felt after a night spent on 20 mattresses under which hid a small insignificant piece of vegetable (a pea, as the story goes). No, this was a direct response to my camping skills – or lack thereof.

Why would anyone sleep under canvas? Bricks and mortar are not that recent an invention and running water….well, thank goodness for all past ‘princesses’ who necessitated and encouraged the invention of indoor plumbing. Why are their names not gracing the pages of history books?

My first camping experience came at me when I was 23. Desperate to experience the true benefits of camping – the all-consuming communion with nature which friends had sworn was more than just a myth – I let my husband talk me into the trip. It was in winter and the rain never let up. Loving husband aside, sharing a tiny mattress and fighting for a share of duvet has been a memory I have long fought to suppress.

My second camping debacle, years later, was unavoidable. It was part of a work tour, a 10-day exploration of Namibia. As a consultant for a tour operator, it was important that I was familiar with the product we sold. Somewhere lost in the exciting itinerary, in the small print, were the words, “desert camping.” Oh, the joy of sand, sea, sun – and a tent.

We entered the Namib-Naukluft National Park on the west of the country. This alien wilderness was mesmerizing in its harsh beauty – dry and hot, barren with the exception of the canyons carved into rock. The landscape flowed from red to gold to brown and of course, the endless white glare of the sun. That sun was a constant touch, seeping into our skin and leaving painful evidence of its caress.

Coming from South Africa one of Namibia’s geographical neighbours, I hadn’t expected to fall for this fascinating country, with its compelling mix of familiar and new.

After a day spent touring the desert, climbing dunes and admiring Namibia’s unique living fossil, the Welwitschia plant, we were taken to a camp site already set up and waiting for the (lucky) campers.

Small 2-man tents, a beautifully laid table, log fire and mobile kitchen. The gin and tonics were good – but sadly, not good enough to take away the sheer horror of seeing the ‘bathroom.’

Yes, a long-drop toilet and hoist showers had the ambitious title of ‘bathroom.’

Okay. I knew I could get through this: with a lot of gin anything was possible.

“It never rains here,” our German-Namibian guide casually announced, speaking over the excited voices of 12 female travelers.

After a busy day, a traumatic shower and a fun evening meal under a starry desert sky, we piled into our tents for some shut-eye.

A wet sensation on my face, and movement around me brought me to my senses hours later.

It was raining. Raining in the desert.

Our tents were open to the elements where the poles joined at the top. Before too much damage could be caused, the helpful staff had whipped the covers over the open canvas and order was restored.

Camping in the rain is unpleasant. At some stage you can’t really get much wetter or dirtier, and this is the equivalent of a break-even point, a goal to reach so you know things won’t get worse.

Camping in the desert, in the rain, is so much more than just unpleasant. Fine white granules share your bedding, grate against your skin and pepper your pillow. Shaking out the sleeping bag doesn’t help – it simply relocates the sand to another inconvenient surface.

What attracts people to camping? Is it a sense of freedom, or the mere draw of being out in the open, one with nature and the elements? Maybe that throwback to childhood, the dream of packing a picnic and marching off into the blue yonder, waving a jaunty “cheers” to your parents?

There is no doubt that camping is a popular pastime – the fact that the Namib-Naukluft National Park alone has numerous camping sites speaks volumes. A lot of people are experiencing the wilderness, tent-style. For my part I would dearly like to offer them medical assistance, of the psychological variety.

This is an argument I have had with so many of my happy camping friends as they extol the virtues of camping – the untouched beauty of the sites, the fun to be had with fellow campers and so on. Fellow campers……and their children.

How do you absorb the silence of the mountains, listen to the crash of the ocean and feel the call of the wind, when you have children shrieking from their bikes not 4 meters from your tent flap?

For now, the closest I get to a tent is the type that liberally uses the words “luxury” in its colour brochure and advertises en-suite bathrooms, room service and hot water.

Oh, yes….and did I say room service?