Last weekend saw my annual holiday. Two years ago it was Nottingham, the only one of 2008, and I was proud of it. Until it was bettered last year with the delights of Ireland. It didn’t involve the need for a passport, but I did get there by aeroplane. An established marker for a genuine holiday since the 1950s. So what would 2010 see? To improve further still, it’d have to be something special... but what? Vegas? Alaska? Madagascar? Surprisingly it was none of these... So which inspirational promised land would see my sole two days of relaxation this, what has proven to be a rather stressful year? Wales?

No seriously, it was Wales. The Gower Peninsula to be more precise, reasonably close to Swansea. A lack of funds meant I’d luckily been handed an opportunity to return to my manly, earthy roots, and spend the two mornings, noons, and nights, bravely camping (in a tent constructed by myself and everything). Some of my childhood must have been spent on various campsites across the British Isles. I can only assume this as fact however, I have no actual memory of camping before (save 4 cold & lonely nights under a mouldy fabric sky 5 years ago at Leeds Festival), but I must have. Everyone’s been camping right?

The adventure starts with our unlikely hero collating all the survival material required for an epic journey. Tent, sleeping bag, sleeping mat – which I didn’t want to take as I’m manly enough to sleep (and then complain) without it, towel, swimmers, couple of t-shirts, pairs of pants, and a book. Tried as best I could to squeeze the list down to ‘essentials’ only, yet still a bit much for a TESCO Bag for Life (the biggest thing I had at my disposal). I needed a larger bag. One, in which I could fit all afore listed items, still be able to get at the important stuff, and carry around on my back with ease. A task akin to finding a pair of Christian Louboutins at a Car Boot Sale, in the right size. But by jovious jove I did it! Only £10 too. There had to be a down side, but I wouldn’t see it until it was too late. As was pointed out to me upon arrival at Paddington station, the bag was designed with that cheap, ‘army fatigues’ pattern, itself such a staple design classic of the early nineties. Not too much of a problem by itself, but you see my shorts boast the same design. Sure, I bought the bag for its luggage architecture, and the shorts for the fit, but no one knew that. I couldn’t walk around with a sign notifying people I was not, in fact, a chav, I just wanted a cheap bag. I doubt they’d believe me if I did. It got worse as soon as I admitted both my towel, and swim shorts enjoyed similar designs. At some point on the train I was forced to change into jeans in the square foot train toilet cubicle, complete with dipstick piss levels so high, it could have housed a wave machine.

Not long after I’d managed to slip myself into those piss-soaked jeans, were we chucked out onto the chav-soaked streets of Swansea. It must be the only city without a Primark. Instead of treating the clothing store giant like a sun-god, Welsh residents simply chose not to wear clothing whatsoever. A subject made even worse when the sun goes down and hen parties come out. Luckily I hopped into a waiting car sooner than you can say “Rugby’s Shit”, and on my way to the campsite.

Landing at the campsite around 18:00 or so, all there was to do that first night, was put up the tent. So after that Krypton Factor, there was still time for a midnight stroll across the beach. The midnight view across the Gower Peninsula beach, on a clear night, under a full moon, only highlights the inadequacies of my packing process. If you head to the pictures for this event, you won’t see any pictures of the moonlit scene, no pictures from anywhere in Wales, or any taken last weekend. You won’t even see any photographs whatsoever. Only a selection of ‘Cheeky Postcards’ (Cheeky in the British way, that’s a bit stupid), all because I went and forgot my camera ‘Bugger’. Shame too, because those shots would have been lovely.

All of the next (the only full day there) was spent at the beach, mixed with miniature trips back to the campsite shop for a Shandy and a choc-ice. Greeted by the site of all that Welsh sand is almost a shock, you don’t expect to find that sort of sandy beach, and warm blue tide close by. And if you do find it, it’s swarming with the worst people on earth (English) like wasps on a giant spider’s web of Fanta flavoured jam. But no... we get down there about 07:30 for some morning Yoga (yeah that’s what I said... Shuttup!) and we’re the only fuckers there (save a couple of Californian wannabe wet-suited board jockeys). The rest of the day’s spent playing beach cricket, beach tennis, beach football, beach Frisbee (just Frisbee), have a little swim, have a little walk, swim out to where the waves are at the highest, and just float about on top of them, that’s pretty cool. Take the Frisbee with you, and start a little Sea Frisbee (just a wetter, shitter version of Beach Frisbee). If you’re lucky though, your suggested game of Sea Frisbee might just be shit enough to force any ladies playing to become so, exponentially bored, that they remove their lady costumes (Nude Swimming, they’re not transvestites). Such a situation sounds great sure... but think again. It’s fraught with potential danger.

1.Where do you look?

Well you’re a gentleman aren’t you (well I am), so you look away. You find a very specific spot in the middle distance suddenly incredibly interesting.

2.What about when they say “Hey James! James! Look, I’m swimming!” or when they give you their one piece to look after...

Do you face her, make sure you stare straight forward into her eyes, above water, but risk your eyes slipping and labelled as a big perv? Or do you look away dramatically, hold an outstretched hand, definitely not risk seeing anything, but look like a childish ponce worried of getting a rogue bonk-on? Or do you just stare away, accept the ‘Big Perv’ moniker, but at least get something for it?

3.  What if you lose/drop one of them!?

When you’re holding onto them, waiting for them to have their fun, you treat them like the one piece of evidence proving your innocence in your own murder trial.

A touch more beach frolics for Sunday, before it was time to pack up the cars and hot-tyre it outta there. Back into the country to stop in a West London pub, just in time to see England slip on a wet bit of seaweed out of the World Cup.

My one tip for the weekend? If you’re thinking about taking on your own Camping, or Beaching holiday yourself? Make sure you’re careful with the suncream. Either cover all your body, or none of it. You don’t want to see people staring at your back like a magic fucking eye.