If you follow my column you probably know that usually I write about serious issues like brain neuroplasticity and health issues. But this week, I’ve decided to share with you the serious issue of camping.

Finally summer has arrived and my beloved partner James and I are heading out for our annual getaway to Tofino for a few days. It's a beautiful warm and sunny day; in fact it is the perfect kind of day for a road trip. We’ve got the windows down as we cruise along the highway, gleefully singing along to 'Someone Saved My Life Tonight' and 'Hotel California' at the top of our lungs. Life is good.

The only order of business on this short holiday agenda is chilling by the vast ocean.

Photo: Contributed

As we pull up to our campsite I can hear the rolling thunder of ocean waves off in the distance. The ocean is beckoning me with her enticing sounds and every cell in my body is excited in anticipation of sinking my bare feet on her powdery-soft sand.

But before we get to venture down to the beach, we have to first pitch our tent. This is where things start to go sideways.

To be perfectly honest, on occasion I get this wild idea that I would actually love camping. And in typical fashion every year I go through some kind of emotional amnesia and I forget that I’m actually a bit of a princess and "roughing it" - as it applies to me - generally means to stay in a three-star hotel. I mean really, how difficult can camping be? Should be simple, right?

Okay, so it’s been awhile since we’ve been camping and we’ve only ever set up this particular tent twice before, and once was in our back yard.

In very short order I realize that neither one of us really knows how to set up the tent - however in my mind I’ve assumed that because James is a man that he would just naturally “know” how these things work. Okay, I admit it; at times I can be a bit daft and have completely unrealistic expectations. Apparently I need to be reminded of this.

And because I have very little patience, I decide that this is a job for James and I offer to take our dog Bella for a walk around the campsite. This gives the allusion that I’m actually useful somehow.

When I return, the tent has magically been set up and we focus on the task of creating our outdoor palace.

Then dilemma number two arrives. Our blow-up bed has sprung a leak. And it is starting to get dark, and all the stores are closed.

What is a princess supposed to do now?

I resist the urge to hop in the car and seek out the nearest three-star hotel (remember, we're supposed to be "roughing it"). Instead I take a deep breath and walk down to the beach to help put things into perspective.

The sky has morphed into an array of blue and pink hues as the sun starts to set. The beauty of the ocean waves lap upon the shore beneath my feet. This serene beauty engulfs me and a hole in the bed becomes the furthest thing from my mind.

Later we head back to our campsite where I continue to shift my focus through sipping martinis by the campfire. Eventually I retreat to our car to sleep for the night.

So you might be asking, what is the moral of the story? If you are a princess, own up to it, embrace it and book a hotel. In the long run everyone will be happier for it.