THE great outdoors. We city dwellers often hanker after it. We lazily slump in front of the television watching "survival" programmes - celebrities roughing it in the jungle, the SAS toughing it in the Arctic tundra or ordinary people bickering as they attempt to trek across inhospitable terrain.

And as we sit in our armchairs part of us, however small, thinks about how we would like to have a go. How we would like to breathe carbon monoxide-free air and get some real exercise that doesn't involve stationary cycles in sweaty gyms.

I was one of those people. But I don't think I am now. Not after one night - yes just one night - camping.

The location could not be described as remote nor basic. On a site in the middle of a popular North York Moors village, it boasted a water supply, hot showers and great toilet facilities.

With our daughters squealing with excitement, we pitched our tent, turned on our little gas heater and sat in the sun drinking tea. So far so good.

Then the sun disappeared and it turned a mite chilly. Nothing like the Arctic tundra, I know, but September isn't the warmest month to go camping and the chill factor was such that - unusually for them - the children sat huddled in their anoraks, refusing to get up and run around.

A portable barbecue offered slight relief from the cold and we all tucked into delicious hot dogs.

When we had put the children to bed there was nothing to do but sit and look at the sky. The night was clear and amazingly starry - something urbanites really miss out on. Mars was shining on the horizon and it felt wonderful to be out there close to nature and all that. But boy it was cold.

Four of us in our small tent was a tight squeeze, so two were pressed up against the sides, which attracted more condensation than the inside of a cooling tower. Every time someone moved, water dripped like rain. Sleeping bags got wet, clothing got wet, we all got wet.

Then there were the trips to the toilet. It may not be the Borneo rainforest, but 300 yards across a dewy meadow is a long way in the middle of a cold night, particularly when you have to make the journey half a dozen times, with and without children.

Sleep did not come easily for any of us. People say the countryside is peaceful, yet it was like sleeping in a livestock mart. Cows, sheep, dogs (why do they sound more like wolves in the country?) owls, cockerels (at 3am) and dozens of unidentified screechings.

At least in town you know it's a car alarm or a drunk ambling home. Many country sounds are so terrifying they could easily have come from the throat of a rabid bat mutation or a savage, cross-bred boar-wolf. There were times when, pathetically, I wondered whether we should pack up and drive home to our nice warm beds.

But we survived and got up to scrambled egg and bacon on a sunny morning.

Apart from the odd moan about the tent, the children loved it and are itching to go again. In a masochistic way, I did too.

But it made me think twice about "real" survivalists. Sleeping in makeshift shelters miles from anywhere, bathing in rivers, eating bugs and all that.

No thanks.

Updated: 11:25 Monday, September 15, 2003