WHEN Wynyard is mentioned, my first thought is never of Sir John Hall, of the top-lifestyle houses built there, or even of the day I swept up the wide drive to the hall itself in the family banger to interview the chef.

Instead, it's of 1957 and sleeping, packed like sardines, eight to a heavy canvas ridge tent. The girl guides - and we were "girl" guides then - of County Durham held their Baden Powell centenary camp in Wynyard Park, giving me my first taste of life under canvas.

I was not impressed. Only half a dozen years earlier, I'd moved to a house with a bathroom and I couldn't understand the fun in returning to even more primitive toilet arrangements than I'd known in a small village where we hadn't got piped water or sewers.

A few years later, I gave camping a further try during a weekend with a friend's family and that decided me. Never again. And I never have. Not even in the comparative civilisation of a caravan.

So how did I produce a daughter who has willingly, cheerfully and enthusiastically camped since her first, rain-sodden week in Cumberland when she was 11?

Understanding our children is a steep learning curve; so steep we find ourselves sliding back down it in spite of our best efforts. I should no doubt be grateful that the only major aspect of the offspring I've never been able to fathom is her love of camping.

Knowing that the whole of the North was having day after day of pouring rain during that first camp, I went to meet the scout bus expecting a miserable and soaked little wreck vowing never to go within a dozen miles of a tent, ever again.

Two lots of bathwater later (the first was liquid mud) I was still hearing non-stop about what a wonderful time they'd had. All I could think was that there ought to be a VC for scout leaders.

Nowadays it's not scout camps but folk and pop festivals and, given the birthday and Christmas presents we've bought in recent years, I do appreciate that life is a lot more comfortable than it was in a thinly-quilted sleeping bag on a ground sheet in a ridge tent.

We bought her a self-inflating mat for a start. We had to have a demo of that to believe it did what it said on the label. On top goes another present, a light, but incredibly warm, hooded sleeping bag with some magic man-made filling and a separate silk liner.

Tents are snug mini-igloos with zipped fly-sheets and built-in ground sheets to keep out the creepy-crawlies. Even the mudbath that was Glastonbury music festival this year (and any other year, as far as I can see) wasn't a problem. Her lot pitched their tents in a circle, someone took a gazebo to park in the middle for a communal space, and they clumped round the site in wellies for the duration. These aren't people camping because it's the cheap option. They're camping because it's well-equipped fun.

Will I give it another try, now there are all these improvements? Not until someone produces a tent with an en suite, fully plumbed bathroom!