They began at 4.30am, cawing so loudly that within minutes of first light breaking, the entire campsite was awake, and cursing.

As I held my pillow around my ears the phrase ‘stone the crows’ suddenly began to make sense.

Shooting them would be much quicker though I grumbled as the kids started surfacing several hours earlier than expected, meaning breakfast was at 6am for us all, when we eventually stumbled from our beds.

Yes, back to my camping weekend where the campsite’s website description of the beautiful beaches and amazing views failed to mention that the wooded camping area included an enormous collection of very noisy birds who never shut up and covered your car and tent in a sticky black layer of excrement.

It also failed to mention the gale-force winds that rocketed in from the sea, rendering any trips to the beach impossible, especially when factoring the steep cliff-stepped climb, which with kids and all their clobber, was more dangerous than anything David Blaine could come up with.

The torrential rain wasn’t their fault, I suppose, and at least it washed away some of the bird muck, but no, so far, not really what I was expecting.

And yet, strangely, I was rather enjoying myself. I liked the comforting sounds of the rain on my tent when I awoke, making my cosy nest much more snugly. And I liked cooking bacon and eggs on a camp stove and watching the kids run around like little Indians. I didn’t mind the washing up or groping around for my toothbrush in the pitch black as much as I’d thought, and the shower blocks were quite civilized really.

But when the rescue helicopter landed a few feet away to take some poor deluded creature away from the beach to hospital (we weren’t sure if it was the intrepid gang of wetsuited men who’d passed us earlier or an unlikely looking hen do, who had fallen foul of the weather gods) and with the rain showing no sign of relenting, decamping to the pub seemed like the best idea.

Several pints later and the world was a better place, literally, because the sun came out, the pub garden filled up and the weekend was suddenly full of possibilities. Back we went, and we trawled the kids around the coastal paths, looked at Lulworth Cove, ate ice creams, cooked dinner, and then settled down for a good evening of beer, burgers and laughter around the campfire, mainly at my expense.

In fact, I was really quite sorry to have to pack up (which takes ages, you try to get a tent covered in bird mess back into the car), and by the time we got home I realised as I morosely trailed about the house that I actually missed it. A convert? I wouldn’t go that far but as for the next trip, I’m planning it already.....