Of course, the rain that fell as we arrived at the campsite wasn't just the "passing shower" we had all insisted to each other. The combination of high terrain and low cloud means that when we're not struggling to see the other side of the campsite, we're swearing at the gods themselves because of all the fucking water.

I had nightmarish visions of waving a piece of steak on the end of a stick over a pile of gently steaming sticks, but one of the ‘locals' came to our rescue. Weirdly, it was before we'd even asked, as if some sort of Camping Sixth Sense had come into play. A ‘borrowed' camp stove, fashioned crudely using an oxy torch and an empty gas cylinder is the saving grace of the evening.

This ingenious piece of camping kit had me severely worried, though - who, in their right mind, would cut or drill through the side of a gas cylinder? What kind of maniac would take an oxy-acetylene torch to the exterior surface of what could, with just the tiniest dribble of LPG left inside it, become an IED and take out everyone within 50 metres? Good God, I thought to myself. These people are all insane.

Managing to get the fire going at all with the sodden wood was a stroke of luck too - the tea candles we'd packed to power the fondue set became the world's best firestarters, even if it took six candles and a very tense half-hour to get things past the "This is fucked because I'm about to starve to death in the rain" feeling that was slowly pervading the trip.

But once the fire was going, all was well. I battled the rising smell of fug that only comes from sitting in the rain for three hours by wrestling the top off a bottle of scotch, the warmth of its soothing malty embrace taking the winterish chill from my bones.

In a fit of inspiration, I grabbed four bananas, a block of chocolate and some tinfoil. Hollowing out the bananas, I stuffed them with chocolate, wrapped them in foil and bunged them in the fire. Fifteen minutes later, we were eating like young gods atop a tropical throne. Hot banana with chocolate - it formed a sticky, glutinous mess that stuck to the fingers like napalm to a ten year old, with much the same effect. But holy hell, did it taste good.

It was then, just as we were having a genuine ‘how's the serenity' moment, it began.

Ga-dunk Ga-dunk-a-dunk, Ga-dunk Ga-Dunk-a-dunk-a-dunk-dunk-dunk.

Drums.

Hippy Drums.

Filthy, stinking, communist, long-hair, dance in the rain, love life and hug all humanity but can't hold a rhythm to save their putrid lives hippy drums.

Drumming helps you get in touch with your feelings. In Gregor's case, rage.

Seething with drunken fury at having my previously-uninterrupted soundscape of dribbling rain sizzling on a borrowed hotplate broken so unceremoniously, my mind turned frantically over what to do.

The answer came from an unexpected quarter, in the form of a group of cowboy-hat wearing bogans in the clearing between ours and the river. Armed with multiple cans of Jack Daniels pre-mixed beverages in each hand, one of them managed somehow to fire up a stereo system, blasting the hippies from their canvas realm with the unrestrained chorus of Sweet Home Alabama. Even worse.

All I could see was a red mist. In my rage, I blacked out, landing conveniently atop the fire. At least I was getting dry...

Morning broke, and our hippy neighbours were the first to reveal themselves. An awkward looking ten year old boy rushed through our campsite, clutching an obviously toxic toadstool.

"Hey Dad!" he cried. "Is this a porcini?"

The family gathered around the find, excited at the prospect of Mother Earth Providing, just like their little Camping for Ferals handbook had said She would. One man, five women, and a teeming hoard of children that all looked more like the father than anyone else... The dirty sod. He'd packed several bongo vans full of his harem and brats, and decided to ruin my holiday.

We ate breakfast, turning our backs on the large extended tribe as they tried to decide whether to eat the toadstool. My money was on yes, they should. Oh, how I would laugh. And then they would see lizards. Many, many lizards.

The cowboy ventured over, drawn by the smell of our cooking bacon, which by this time had driven our clearly Vegan friends, reeling, for the safety of their bio-diesel-burning family fun vans. The Cowboy's matriarch, still clutching her JD and Cola, introduced herself. We'll call her "Lisa", in case she eventually discovers the internet, reads this, and decides to sue.

Lisa was, bless her, one of the most open and honest people I've ever met - more forthright than 99% of the people on the planet.

"Those hippies are cunts. All that drumming. Bang bang bang... I'll give them fuckin' bang bang bang," uttered my new best friend. As we'd polished off our entire supply of booze the night before, and the rain had caused the river to rise beyond the point where it was passable, making a trip into town for grog impossible, we helped ourselves to her JD and Cola.

A man can't have bacon and eggs without something to wash it down, after all.

Lisa told us she worked in childcare, and promptly proved her credentials when her grandson arrived in our campsite. Three years old, he was dragging behind him a mallet that would crush his tiny toes should he ever put a foot wrong.

"Damien!" she shouted. "Don't you hit any of the cars with that mallet!"

Damien just grinned, a vivid green number eleven snaking from his nostrils to be eagerly lapped at as it hit his top lip.

"I specialise in looking after autistic kids," said Lisa.

Which goes part of the way towards explaining why this one was clearly neglected.

Day Two passed in a blur. I waded the river to buy dry firewood, and built a small pyre to help celebrate the funeral of my weekend. No more booze, except what we could scrounge, and too wet to do anything but hunker down in the tent and plough through our ‘emergency rations' of biscuits - God, how I love to camp.

Day turned to night, and the drums began in earnest. On came the stereo, and through the hopeless fog of sobriety, I decided enough was enough.

Fighting fire with fire, I grabbed the car keys, switched on the car and turned on the Pixies. With Frank Black screaming about wanting to become a debaser, the cowboys were the first to know they'd been trumped. Slim Dusty's interminable wailings just couldn't keep up.

The hippies were next to stop, as their campsite was invaded by all of the native animals that had settled in ours to escape their god-awful drumming. It was mutually assured destruction, and I was the only one guaranteed sleep that night. I dozed off by the fire, and dreamt of waves of mutilation.

When dawn broke, we were alone. The cowboys had abandoned camp sometime in the wee hours, and the hippies were long gone. I had worn down the battery in the car, but I had won. The campsite was mine to do with as I pleased.

So we packed up, and went home.