I have had a healthy Anglo-Saxon fear of these ever since the first (and, fortunately, only) 51 Club holiday. It involved a coach trip from Euston Station to the South of France and two weeks in a tent with an ever-changing variety of companions. The campsite facilities were, er, shared. The leitmotif for the holiday was "Was there anybody I never promised a Rose Garden to last night?", usually delivered in the direction of our fellow campers at maximum volume during breakfast. Breakfast, from the little I remember, consisted of two bottles of wine and 20 Rothmans King Size.
