If we had a motorhome, I am certain we would enjoy it.
But we don't.
We have a tent.
I am happy with a tent.
Not deliriously happy, as in the kind of delirious that comes from having million-count sheets and BluRay 4K on demand inside an air-conditioned mobile living room.
The kind of happy that is a little uncomfortable, because you have to work at it, and you have to find a decent sleeping position without a major rock under your head, and make do without charging your phone up all night, and listen to the sounds of night creatures all around, and the thought of watching a half-episode of Game of Thrones before bedtime is appealing...
...but there is a joy and satisfaction that comes from being a little uncomfortable. Having to build a shelter out of canvas and rigging (i.e. tent) and know that's all that's separating you from the creatures nocturnal. Listening to the night. Absorbing the smells of the great outdoors, and the great tent indoors, which can be not always ideal. Snuggling up; trying to prevent feet from colliding with heads and tiny bodies from spilling out of sleeping bags trying to see if I can differentiate amongst a billion crickets each singing different parts of the same song.
So we camp. In a tent. As a family. I am not unaware of the fortune I am endowed with to be married to someone who enjoys tent life. Thank you, Countess Becca, for being a willing wildling.
To repose we go. Wish us well.