Banish thoughts of cold, concrete-block showers with cracked tiles and cramped caravans - camping is no longer the sole domain of the kagoule brigade, as Lindsay Jennings discovers.

WE arrive on a pretty grey day and have the distinct feeling we're being watched. The impressive backdrop of the Malvern Hills lines one side of the campsite at Blackmore in deepest Worcestershire and we're shown around the Avondale Rialto caravan, told which buttons to press and how to empty the chemical loo, which we don't plan on using.

It is roughly 20 years since I last came camping and I'm not sure what to expect. I've not been camping since my mum made me drink pop from an orange Tupperware cup; since I stood on freezing cold, cracked tiles in the showers wishing I'd brought my flip-flops and since my brother and I sat in a huge tractor tyre and dangled from a tree, whooping with laughter.

My brother, Andrew, is with me on this occasion with his fiancee Vicki and my boyfriend, Mike. We're all mightily impressed with the caravan and how much room we have and that it has its own shower and a little oven.

But there is still the feeling we are being watched, and as we explore outside the caravan and sit in the top-of-the-range Isuzu Trooper which comes with it we see why, in the shape of fellow campers staring curiously at the newcomers. It's a bit disconcerting and I get a strong, mischievous urge to start waving at them, a bit like the Queen, but there are cars to unpack and wardrobe space to argue over, so we get on with the job in hand.

It's a four-berth caravan which can sleep two adults so the boyfriend and I decide to buy a small tent which we pitch up alongside the caravan. I may not have been camping for more than 20 years, but by day one I've managed to buy a tent and am getting excited at the prospect of all the camping equipment I can collect - small kettles, torches and those little pans with detachable handles.

By the evening, the sun has broken through the grey and we have our barbecue set up with meat fresh from the local butcher and cans of lager from the local supermarket.

"This is the life, it's absolutely smashing," says my brother, as he plucks another sausage from the barbie and dips it in tomato sauce.

Vicki and I check out the toilet block. I have memories of muddy, grass-filled shower basins and echoey, cold toilet blocks but we're greeted now with warmth. The showers have pink tiles, they are hot and there's liquid soap too. There are even separate sink basins for privacy, unheard of 20 years ago, and hand dryers so you don't have to drag towels along all the time.

We bump into other campers and are greeted by cheerful comments such as "settled in?" and "enjoying your barbie?". On a campsite you can talk to complete strangers for half an hour and no one bats an eyelid. We decide it makes a nice change to have pleasant talk, instead of the usual marching along, with the head down. There's a definite quality of life feeling.

Later, in the evening, we move into the caravan and play Monopoly - we left the television at home deliberately so we could make our own amusement. We have great fun until we realise how loud we're being. A trip to the toilet and shouts of: "Advance to Gooooooo!!!!!!!!" and "You've won second prize in a beauty contest, collect £10" can be heard from a good few metres away from the caravan. We can't believe how much the sound carries and try our best to keep the noise down - but it's hard when someone's fiddling the bank.

When it comes to putting the beds up it really is evident how the noise carries. Andrew and Vicki report that they could hear us talking in the tent alongside the caravan. I tell Andrew he sounded like he was building a stage set for a West End musical when he put the beds up and we all resolve to be quieter.

It is a beautifully kept, peaceful site, and while Andrew and Vicki opt to sit quietly and read the next day, Mike and I tackle the Malvern Hills - well two of them. This outdoor life is grand, we say, and return to another barbecue and more Monopoly.

The Camping and Caravanning Club is 100 years old and has 93 sites across the UK and Ireland, including Blackmore. We're told by one of the site's assistants that the cost of a caravan and a decent 4X4 can be as much as a house, and it's clear to see as we stroll around the site that some have spent much more than others. VW campervans are dotted next to impressive, deluxe caravans. Then there are the tents which tend to group together - somehow seeming the poorer relation to the caravans. Even though we have been greeted with genuine friendliness everywhere, I imagine there is a snobbish hierarchy when it comes to the caravan you have or the car you pull it with.

Six days later, and we all agree we don't want to go home. We sit in the caravan and watch the newcomers arrive, staring at their caravans and commenting as they put up their tents. They're probably wondering what we're looking at.

* A few weeks later and we arrange to meet my caravanning parents at the Camping and Caravanning Club site at Lartington, near Barnard Castle - a site offering the same excellent facilities as Blackmore.

My boss can't believe I'm going camping again so soon. "You're really getting into it aren't you, you'll be joining the Camping and Caravanning club next," he says.

"Too late," I reply. "I already have."

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* For more information log onto www.campingandcaravanningclub.co.uk or telephone 024 7685 6798.