Sometimes, you’ve just got to know when to throw the towel in.

I’m not saying that lightly. I’m the sort of bloke who once cycled halfway across the planet powered purely by optimism and jam sandwiches. But last Friday, deep in the Forest of Dean, I hit the wall.

Rain was rising up from the forest floor into my socks and the kids were cocooned in their sleeping bags yelling “MAKE IT STOP, DAD!” as if I personally controlled British weather. I was at war with my ego.

Was this to be a lesson in:

a) Resilience (pride), or
b) Knowing when to quit (practicality)

Before I answer that, let’s rewind a few hours.

I’d decided in a moment of delusional optimism that, despite the forecast resembling a damp obituary, a post-school Friday-night campout would be a cracking idea. The plan was simple: if I got my packing act together during the day Susi could drop us at the trailhead before dark, giving us just enough time to hike in, set up camp, and live out our dendrophilic dreams.

The spot I’d scouted earlier in the week was a peach, tucked off any known trail and surrounded by old-growth trees that looked like they’d seen druids come and go. The forest was in full fireworks mode, leaves hanging on by their fingernails, burning through every shade of yellow, gold and red before giving in. I imagined us basking in that glow, a small fire crackling, the kids toasting spongy treats on the end of sticks, me smugly sipping a single malt, feeling like the world’s most competent child-rearer.

That is not how it went.

Susi’s face said it all as she waved us goodbye from the car. I got her to snap a quick pic before she dived back inside to escape the rain. We whooped and waved her off like Antarctic explorers just deposited on pack ice. I don’t speak fluent car horn, but this one definitely translated as “Please bring my children back in one piece, you twat.”

So off we plodded - skipping almost through the silence, the drizzle, the falling leaves. No matter how big or small, I love this moment on any adventure, that first inhale of freedom before the chaos sets in.

Halfway up a sloppy trail we stumbled across an alarming yet impressive, still-steaming pile of animal turd.

I had to act fast.

“No way, it’s fresh too!” I exclaimed. “I’ve heard about this creature. Can’t believe it’s nearby us.”

“Daaaad…” Luna might only be 6, but she’s grown accustomed to this tomfoolery.

“Seriously, I’m almost certain this is the bowel deposit of a Snortleboar.”

“Daaaaaad, you’re joking,” she said, though this time there was a faint tremor of belief.

“Three times the size of a normal wild boar,” I continued. “Most active in early autumn, they feed exclusively on fallen leaves. Got their name because when they’re angry, they whistle through the undergrowth like an old kettle.”

Silence. I’d successfully blown her imagination into a terror state, and immediately regretted it.

We soon found our patch for the night. With the rain picking up and the light fading, we wasted no time putting up the tent.

Now, this wasn’t any tent. Oh no. This was a tree tent, suspended off the ground with three heavy-duty ratchets. Three trees and you’re sorted. Raised high enough, it doubles as a shelter. We had it up quicker than you can say abra-viagra, both kids surprisingly useful thanks to the promise of dryness. Sleeping mats in, bags thrown, job done.

I’d packed two collapsible chairs, so they assumed their thrones while I fired up the stove. The kids are obsessed with any meal that just requires adding water, so despite sharing the nutritional value of a clothes peg, Pot Noodles were revered with the same grandeur most adults reserve for truffled veal at The Ritz.

After dinner we strapped on head-torches and marched off into the woods in search of deer and wild boar, Luna gripping my hand tighter than a melting 99 Flake, convinced she could hear Snortleboar whistling in the leaves.

The rain soon turned biblical, so we retreated to the tree palace (fairy lights can transform any setup into the Taj Mahal). I threw the kids inside to get into pyjamas and took a moment to feel smug.

That lasted about ten seconds.

I peeked beneath the tent and saw a steady drip where the floor sagged. Water was seeping through like almond milk through a muslin cloth. Homemade misery in liquid form.

“DAAAD, MY SLEEPING BAG’S SOAKING!”

A quick torch inspection confirmed Jet was not wrong. Water was pissing through the fly sheet, the tent innards - supposedly under it’s protection - now soggier than a spaniel’s handshake.

I told the kids to burrow deeper into their bags while I paced the perimeter, weighing my two options:

If I go there will be trouble

Susi was finally having a night to herself, probably curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine the size of a wheelbarrow and a slab of dark chocolate, revelling in the rare peace of a Brydon-free evening. She deserved it having to put up with our two us three. Making that SOS call would be a fart at the funeral.

And if I stay, it will be double

The rain wasn’t stopping, and our gear was cooked. Could we survive the night? Sure, we probably could. It would be grim and we’d leave with trench-foot, but technically, survival was on the cards. Kids can sleep through an earthquake, after all.

After a few moist laps of the tent, I made my decision. “We’re going home,” I announced, with all the authority of a war general and the self-respect of a man who’s just been beaten by weather.

We packed fast, spotted the Hulk Hogan of slugs glugging the last of the Pot Noodle juice, and trudged off in search of reception. Three kilometres later a single bar blinked to life. I called Susi.

She didn’t sound surprised.

I mumbled something about being very wet but ‘spirits were high,’ and twenty minutes later our saviour pulled up with full beams on to find the three of us huddled under a tree sharing an aptly named Boost bar. At home, she served up beef stew and a large glass of red. Not for the first time, I realised I’d married a winner.

So what’s the lesson in all this, for me and the kids? I’ve been ruminating on it for a few days.

Check your gear before you leave? Duh.

But there’s something deeper too.

We live in an age of convenience. Tap, swipe, one-click, same-day delivery. A society so smooth it’s like trying to wrestle a dolphin in olive oil. But meaning doesn’t live in the comfort, it lives in the friction, and that’s something we need to model for our kids as early as possible.

The outdoors is the perfect classroom for it too. Nature doesn’t care about your plans or your waterproof rating. Things go wrong, and that’s exactly the point. It’s in those moments, soaked to the skin and muttering obscenities to yourself that the learning sneaks in. Nothing ever goes perfectly to plan, and that’s okay. The real skill is solving the problem, which sometimes means bailing. And if you’re lucky, you’ll get a good story out of it in the process.

Adventure is good friction in disguise. Struggle, slowness and the occasional soggy sleeping bag are the price of perspective, and that’s a currency our kids should be collecting.

Footnote: For the record, it’s actually a brilliant tent. Turns out ten years in storage and zero waterproofing maintenance will test even the finest of fabrics.