I’ve just returned from a middle-class camping holiday. I don’t mean one of those camping weekends that doubles as a literary festival, like Port Eliot in Cornwall. I mean I’ve just spent three nights at a campsite that is middle-class all year round. Blackberry Wood in Sussex is about ten miles from Brighton and while there isn’t actually a sign on the gate saying ‘No Riff Raff’, you’re very much in BBC1 sitcom territory circa 1976. I kept expecting to bump into Margo and Jerry in the washing-up area.
As you’d expect, there are numerous rules of etiquette that aren’t written down anywhere but are religiously observed. Personal computers, for instance, are frowned upon. I found this out within minutes of arriving when I was ‘caught’ watching the Olympics on my MacBook Pro. I knew Caroline would disapprove of this — ‘We’re supposed to be camping, for God’s sake’ — so I pretended I was going off to look for wood for the bonfire. You can actually buy wood in the reception area if you’re feeling lazy, but that is terribly infra dig.
I discovered a Wi-Fi hotspot just by the men’s loos and was standing outside, watching the British men’s four row to victory, when a middle-aged woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked me how much longer I intended to watch ‘television’ for. Not ‘the Olympics’, mind you. Television.
I scuttled off with my tail between my legs. I subsequently discovered that it was equally unacceptable to whip out my iPhone and check my emails. All forms of digital communication are strictly verboten at Blackberry Wood. Indeed, I was half tempted to doctor the sign at the gate, inserting the word ‘free’ between Blackberry and Wood.
There were dozens of children scurrying around, all called things like Oscar and Poppy.
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