IS THE wonderful world of camping really in terminal decline, as figures released last week would suggest?

It appears that rising affluence - as opposed to rising effluent that campers may have suffered - is a contributory factor to the statistics that show camping holidays in Britain have fallen by a fifth since 2003.

Of course, the fact that the UK happens to be the biggest rainforest in the world might not help, but it's reckoned that within five years, the number of camping trips will plummet to 9.5 million, a drop of 23 per cent.

Sorry about this, but 9.5 million still sounds like a lot of people prepared to snuggle up in a damp sleeping bag and eventually fall asleep, rarely safe in the knowledge that their tent will not have been washed away by the morning.

While I have every admiration for those millions of people who aren't competing with me to grab bargain luxury all-inclusive holidays in five-star hotels, am I wrong in thinking it's a bit barking to swap a nice comfortable brick house and warm bedroom for some thin waterproof material, a camping stove and some jolly songs?

I am rather proud to admit that I have never erected a tent in my entire life.

Even on a recent trip - when I had to sleep in a tent because the car we had was too uncomfortable - I had little to do with its erection, apart from a bit of project managing, which seemed to irritate the bloke putting up the tent immensely.

This may be directly linked to the fact that I have vowed never to sleep in one since one of my school's ill-fated Lake District camps in the mid seventies.

It was a notorious, dramatic but short-lived summer break that saw a number of the teenagers - one Butterworth, N.H. included - grounded after being found chatting up local girls in the nearby village.

But it was the rain that will live in my mind. Great relentless sheets of the stuff that slanted into the campsite at an angle that bordered on the horizontal.

I seem to remember that there were about a dozen young lads in my tent. At least, there were on the first night because I swear a couple of them were washed away with the first deluge.

There is nothing more miserable for a wimp like myself than to be constantly wet and cold.

And there is no worse aroma on earth than a wet tent containing a dozen soaking and steaming teenage boys suffering from the early stages of trench foot.

It was about 35 years ago, but the experience scarred me forever and whenever we head off to the UK or abroad to stay in static caravans on thoroughly modern holiday centres, I never fail to shudder as I pass the now-all-mod-cons tents on the site...