The father always wanted to bring us camping so he took us to Courtown one year. The mother was always dead set against it but she relented this year. I was twelve. He hired a tent from O Maras and off we went. Except he hadn’t booked a pitch. We got to Courtown and trailed around the campsites to no avail. We eventually managed to get into an unofficial site (ie a field with an outhouse). We pitch the tent and two go boys from Dublin pitch a two man tent beside us. The lads are head to toe in denim, long hair, moustaches, sideburns, smoking, the works. They head off to the pub. We hit the hay.
Around midnight we are awoken by a ruckus next door. The lads have come back from the pub with two ladies. The two man tent isn’t big enough to to accommodate them all. There are shouts of will you hurry the fuck up. I want me fucking go etc. I pretend to sleep through it all. Not a word is said in our tent.
The following morning the father silently packs up the tent and we drive off. We never go on another camping holiday.