Glamping is camping for people who’ve aged out of sleeping on the ground…or who were never really into that in the first place. In other words, it’s for me. I grew up playing in the woods and mucking about in the creek behind our house, and I still love diving into nature for an hour or an afternoon, for a hike in the woods or a scuba dive, but then I like to curl up someplace luxe.
Blame it on the Winnebego my father bought for our family when I was a child. I still have a childhood memory of me riding in the passenger seat with my father behind the wheel, and Gladys Knight’s Midnight Train To Georgia playing on the Winnebego radio dial. It was all over lickety-split. By the time I was eight my parents had split, and the little familial paradise I longed for (I long for it still) had come to its inevitable, unceremonious end. Still I have that memory. It’s the sweetest one I know. Back then we camped in a campground. I’m pretty sure it had paved roads. The only reason we bothered to camp at all is that this was the 1970’s, and in our little corner of paradise (Panama City, Florida, a.k.a. “The Redneck Riviera”), they wouldn’t have the likes of us in their all-white hotels. My how times have changed.