I’ve never quite understood the allure of camping. Sure, nature is great! Give me star gazing, ocean bathing and breathtaking views any day of the week. But when it comes to sleep, I need a solid bed, a sturdy structure and working plumbing (and, if we’re being particular, my moulded foam pillow and a sound machine that plays continuous white noise).

When camping enthusiasts hear about my aversion to the outdoorsy pastime, they often chalk it up to a lack of experience. “You’ve just got to try it!” they chuckle, eager to recommend their beginner-friendly spots. But once I share my tales of camping on the side of the Himalayan mountains at age 10, in an improvised tent while dealing with an explosive parasite (yes, it’s as bad as it sounds) and no toilets for days on end, their enthusiasm evaporates – and they usually make a hasty retreat.

This formative expedition took me on a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ adventure with my mum, a man she had just met – who had once camped in a tent in our backyard, no less – and a stoic Indian driver who saved our lives on multiple occasions.

My mum – ever the free spirit – happily accepted an invitation from her new beau to traverse the Himalayas. I don’t think he expected to have a 10-year-old with a dodgy tummy tag along, and I certainly didn’t anticipate spending two months camping in a makeshift tent with a grumpy guy who fancied himself Bear Grylls.

I'm all for DIY (reduce, reuse, recycle!), but there are just some things that are better off bought new – like a tent you plan on using to camp your way across the Himalayas. But alas, my mum’s boyfriend insisted he could construct a tent from a piece of tarp and some metal rods. Like in an episode of Alone, we pitched this “tent” to varying degrees of success. Waking up to water pooling by my head was traumatic enough, but when the tent collapsed in the howling Himalayan winds, I made a vow to never go camping again… if I made it home alive.

And that was before I contracted giardia (a nasty intestinal infection) in a place where there were no working toilets for miles – and not a tree in sight. In a truly memorable instance, my frequent request for toilet stops led us to a dodgy rest area (imagine a cliff on one side and a sheer drop on the other), where I ended up squatting in the only secluded spot available: behind a big truck. To my utter dismay, a middle-aged woman, clearly with the same urgent need, rushed to the same hiding place. Let me tell you, dear reader, the bond shared with someone who shares your plight while squatting side-by-side behind a truck, on one of the world’s most dangerous roads, is a special kind of camaraderie. The brief, horrified eye contact we exchanged was both a tragic and oddly beautiful moment of solidarity.

After weeks of camping in places even the local nomads shook their heads at, we made it to our destination on the other side of the Himalayas, significantly thinner (and emotionally scarred for life). Any sensible person would know you need a four-wheel drive to cross a Himalayan mountain pass, but we were in a Morris Minor, a rear-wheel drive car designed for city streets and smooth roads. Whether or not it’s true, we were told we were the first people to ever drive a normal car across the Himalayas – and by some miracle (thanks to our fabulous driver), we didn’t slide off those treacherous roads. We did, however, get bogged more times than I can count, so my mum and I frequently had to hop out of the car, hoist up our pants, and wade through icy mountain rivers that crossed the road.

While camping in Australia may be vastly different to camping in the Himalayas, it isn’t any more appealing to me. A story from a friend made me even more confident in my decision to avoid sleeping in the ‘great’ outdoors. On one of her many ‘childhood-enriching’ camping experiences, she settled into her sleeping bag, tummy full of toasted marshmallows. As she stretched her legs out, her toes encountered something smooth and scaly that started to uncoil. To her horror (and mine as her audience), it turned out a snake had chosen her sleeping bag as its cosy hideaway. And while that might not be a usual occurrence, I’m perfectly content avoiding the risk altogether.

I occasionally feel pangs of mum guilt for denying my daughters a classic childhood adventure, but remembering my eldest’s aversion to all bugs (yes, even the humble housefly) makes me realise she’s probably more than happy missing out. On the odd occasion I’ve asked her (through gritted teeth) if she wants to go camping, she responds that she’s not really a “camping girl” but more of a “glamping girl.” I hug her and tell her she’s in the right family. Since my baby daughter can’t yet speak, I’ll be holding my breath until she can clearly announce her desire to stay at the Ritz-Carlton.

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