He wasn’t that keen, but sex in the great outdoors connected me to my primal self

During our 16-year marriage, my soon-to-be ex-husband and I went to many different middle-class campsites, but we never had sex in any of them.

We did not wish to add to our three children’s future therapy bills, and the other tents were too close.

If we could hear little Oliver’s demands for snacks from our blow-up mattresses, they could hear whatever we might be up to, too.

I hoped things would be different when my hopefully soon-to-be-boyfriend Eliot suggested we spend a weekend camping in Wiltshire, just the two of us.

I still didn’t feel I knew him that well; we’d been seeing each other for less than six months, and not frequently due to his work commitments and my family life. But the forecast was good.

I pictured kicking back with a glass of rosé and watching Eliot pitch the tent, hopefully without his t-shirt, rather than the usual situation: me ferrying everything including the kitchen sink between tent and car, trailed by children.

The campsite was promising, beautiful and remote; the pitches were situated miles from each other.

The week before, I kept up a steady flow of innuendo about large tent poles on my WhatsApp exchanges with Eliot.

I wanted this trip to be different to my family’s camping trips, so refused to take on the ‘mum’ admin role. But Eliot didn’t step up, which meant that, when we got to the campsite late on Friday, we had to rush to the pub for fish and chips.

By the time we returned, it was getting dark and Eliot was panicking over which rod to insert into where. I was tempted to shout ‘Ooh matron!’, but, aged 27, Eliot would not have understood the reference.

Instead, we laboured together in anxious silence until the tent was up, and sadly it was the only thing erected that night. We glugged a glass of wine from tin mugs in the gloomy interior before we fell chastely asleep.

The next morning my face was puffy, sweaty and red and I was more concerned with perfecting my make-up than my seduction technique.

The problem with dating a younger man is the pressure I put on myself to look my best — even in the middle of a field. the tent was oppressive and buzzing with flies and however beautiful Eliot looked lying there in his boxer shorts, his forearm thrown over his forehead like a fallen god, rolling out into fresh air was a more attractive option.

We spent the day relaxing around the campsite and visiting the local village fete — all very adult.

I had time to reflect on how much better Eliot’s legs looked in his shorts than any other man’s in the county, and that evening we cuddled up by the campfire.

But, neither of us had planned this trip properly, we had nothing to eat, not even marshmallows. And the pubs had stopped serving food by the time we realised just how late it was. never mind though, it was time to settle under the canvas, Eliot on his back, me on my side, my hand roaming over his toned stomach.

As my hand went lower he turned towards me.

‘What, here?’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I said, courage failing.

‘Why not here?

‘Isn’t it a bit... dirty?’ he replied.

Eliot looked anxiously up at the congregation of insects under the tent’s roof. he’d spent the evening zipping our bags firmly shut against bugs.

‘‘That’s the point, right?’’ I said.

‘’I guess,’’ Eliot said.

He closed his eyes and kissed me, not very passionately.

His mattress was higher than mine; I felt as if I was making supplications to a prince.

After a while, he rolled on top of me. I could feel the earth pressing against my back.

‘’Are you sure?’’ I said.

‘’I’m into it, ‘’ he said, rather dutifully.

But even in just the missionary position, even with the mattress squeaking out a sex signal to any other campers passing by, it was hot.

I’d spent all day admiring Eliot, and now he was mine. And there is something about having sex amid the great outdoors, that for me (if not for him) connected me to my primitive side.

I didn’t — couldn’t — get wild, but it was still extremely satisfying. relaxing even. no grimacing or straining, I was just at one with nature.

Afterwards, Eliot decided to risk the campsite shower.

Across the filed I could hear a gang of kids being shouted at by their parents to go to sleep.

For once, that wasn’t me. I’d managed to have actual sex in an actual tent.

Just for tonight, I didn’t miss my kids at all.

Annabel Bond is a pseudonym and names have been changed.