Ever since I saw Carry On Camping, I’ve been obsessed with life under canvas. As a spotty adolescent, the sight of Barbara Windsor’s bra flying off in a flooded field somewhere in England had a huge impact on me. She might now be known as the miserable hag behind the bar in Eastenders, but Babs was seriously sexy in the 70s and she’s the reason I still spend every summer sleeping under a temporary erection (I even write like a Carry On script).

My first tent was an enormous orange thing which, while big enough to house the Waltons, needed an engineer to put up. While others would drive onto a campsite, erect their flashy fibreglass-framed jobs and head to the pool for a refreshing dip, I’d be busy until the early hours of the next morning trying to convert canvas and poles into something vaguely resembling a tent.

Still, camping is the ultimate in independent travel, and I have happy memories of my travels with that giant canvas sleeping bag. I reckon it's the way to go on a trip around Europe. They do things differently on the continent. On many British sites, you have to pay for your stay up front, you’re told exactly where to pitch your tent by the “camp commandant” and face immediate expulsion if you even think about lighting the barbie.

But, in France for instance, the attitude is a lot more laissez-faire (note the way I slip easily into French). When you arrive at a site, you choose where you want to make your temporary home and stay as long as you like.

Eventually, a wizened Frenchman might enquire about how long you intend to stay and charge you a few francs for the night. Shrug your shoulders and say merci — he’ll soon leave you alone.

If you’ve got your own wheels (two or four), you can go where you want, safe in the knowledge that you’re never going to find yourself without a bed for the night. And if you stay clear of the main tourist resorts (especially in the south), you’ll often have a site to yourself and pay less than £3 per night for the privilege.

I’d recommend a dome tent with a fibreglass frame; with few pegs, they are quick and easy to put up. You’ll be grateful when you head south as it’s no fun trying to bang 50-odd pegs into rock-hard ground in 30 degree heat — take it from someone who knows.

You’ll need a decent bedroll, sleeping bag, esky, camping stove, torch and some basic kitchen equipment, but you shouldn’t need to spend much more than £100. The costs are small change when you think of what you’ll save on accommodation and cappuccinos when you cross the pond (that’s what us sophisticated Poms call the English Channel). And, if you’ve got wheels, treat yourself to a table and chairs (necessities for most people, but definite signs of wimpishness to the hardened camper).

Even the smallest towns have a campsite and, because everyone heads for the Riviera in the summer, most are virtually empty. The facilities are usually excellent, with private pitches surrounded by hedges (handy if you need to take a leak in the middle of the night and can’t be bothered to walk all the way to the toilet block).

If you want to plan ahead, the Michelin camping guidebooks and maps list information on most of the official sites in France. There are also plenty of farms offering basic alternatives (translation: a field in which to camp and a bucket in which to … use your imagination). Look for Camping à la ferme signs or take a chance and knock on any farmhouse door, asking in broken French if you can camp in the garden.

If an angry farmer chases you with a shotgun in his hand shouting Allez! Allez!, then the answer is probably “no” and you may have inadvertently asked to marry his daughter.

But don’t let that put you off. When I’m lying in the sun, my tent standing proud and my pole erect, I think of Babs stuck in the “Queen Vic” with only Grant Mitchell for company, and everything’s alright with the world.