Andalucía

The Spanish camping brand that’s big on nature immersion, cool design and creature comforts | Andalucia holidays

A few years ago, camping with friends, I watched in awe as Becky set up her pitch. While the rest of us were stringing out guy ropes on tents as glamorous as giant cagoules, she arrived with a bell tent, duvets instead of sleeping bags, sheepskin rugs and vintage folding chairs. For all the talk of breathability, practicality and “high performance” gear, it was Becky’s tent we all wanted to sleep in. In the years since, I have never quite achieved her level of camping chic – until this summer, when I discovered the innovative Spanish camping brand Kampaoh.

It all began back in 2016, when Kampaoh CEO Salvador Lora and his partner were backpacking in the Dominican Republic. One night they came across a campsite with pre-erected tents within which were mattresses and blankets. “We were in the middle of nature, surrounded by peace, and lacked nothing,” he tells me.

Back home in Spain, Salvador wondered if something like that could work there – and decided to experiment setting up a handful of tents in Tarifa. Today the company has 90 sites across Europe, most of them in Spain, but also in Portugal and Italy. Coming across the brand by chance when looking for somewhere to stay in Andalucía, I booked into Camping Los Villares, one of its showcase sites, in the hills above Córdoba.

Arriving in the golden hour, after travelling overland by train, Los Villares looks like a dreamy backdrop to a Sofia Coppola film. From the entrance, the land drops gently away to reveal avenues of cream-coloured canvas tents, the sun filtering through tall Aleppo pines.

The writer stayed in one of the campsite’s Anza tents

Los Villares has a wide range of accommodation, from bell tents to vast, safari-style Bali tents, cute triangular Buka tents (with private, rustic-chic washrooms outside), Tiny Love cabins (with private baths with views), and Tiny Play family cabins (with a slide from their mezzanine bunks down to the living areas). My mid-range Anza is a lofty, triangular tent with a shower and toilet tucked behind the sleeping area and a raised, decked porch. The site is open year-round and the tents have air-conditioning and a small heater. There’s space for basic tent campers and a small campervan area, too.

Outside the school holidays, with the campsite’s restaurant closed midweek, dinner that first night is sliced tomatoes, olives and tortilla foraged from a nearby village shop. As I eat on the terrace, all is deeply peaceful – the wind twisting through pines, blue-tailed Iberian magpies resting on branches overhead.

Inside, my white, cream and wood tent is decorated with fairy lights and faux pot plants; the low platform bed (with proper mattress and pillows!) made up with white bedlinen. Plates, cups and cutlery are provided – and if I’d brought a pet, a mini version of the tent would provide a shady dog bed. An information sheet encourages me to tag @kampaoh on social media; arrival details had been sent via WhatsApp.

It’s perfectly designed to appeal to gen Z travellers, the experience-seeking, social media-canny cohort that are becoming the dominant demographic in travel. While aesthetics are important, blingy, performative luxury is not; conscious of overtourism and the need to prioritise wellbeing, they look for off-the-beaten-track outdoor stays where they can run, swim, surf and cycle, as well as social connection. If Kampaoh’s campsites ticked any more of the demographic’s boxes it would break TikTok.

Interior of an Anza tent

“We wanted to bring back the magic of connecting with nature and outdoor adventures without giving up comfort or style,” says Lora. “The new generation love experiences like camping but they also have high expectations for design, comfort and aesthetics. Visual appeal isn’t superficial; it’s part of how we live and share our experiences.”

Kampaoh isn’t the only camping brand tapping into this market. In France, the Parisian hotel brand Touriste recently launched three stylishly revamped holiday parks under its Campings Liberté brand, while Huttopia, which began in 2000 with a small, nature-based campsite in the French Alps and a devotion to wood and canvas structures, now offers 152 sites in eight countries. Unlike other glamping providers, the aim is not to add on hotel-style frills, but to increase basic comfort. Setting themselves apart from big, pre-erected tent and cabin operators such as Eurocamp, operators like Kampaoh keep sites relatively small and, crucially, stylish.

As I sit on the restaurant’s terrace sipping coffee the next morning, shielded by fig trees, I watch a steady trickle of campers heading out for the day in hiking or cycling gear. It was 37C in Córdoba when I collected my hire car, but up here it’s a pleasant 26C. With the smell of hot pine needles in the air, I follow them out to explore.

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The campsite is amid pine-clad hills and surrounded by picnic spots and hiking trails

The campsite is in the Parque Periurbano Los Villares, a protected area of 484 hectares (2 sq miles) that’s peppered with bird hides, signposted botanical trails and picnic areas. The GR48 long-distance footpath goes through it, and a network of cycling routes around it. After hiking up to a viewpoint behind the park’s visitor centre to get my bearings, I drive to the small town of Santa María de Trassierra to walk the 20-minute path to the Baños de Popea.

Remote and jungly, this river pool was a favourite spot with Córdoba’s Cántico group of poets and artists in the late 1940s. The tumble of small waterfalls and pools – full from unusual spring rain – form a magical spot, reached through glades of bear’s breech (Acanthus mollis), and paths edged with beams of gorse-like French broom.I could easily spend all day here, but there’s still Córdoba to see, with its parks of orange trees, the shady gardens of the Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos and the famous mosque-cathedral of Mezquita.

The gardens of the Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos in Cordoba, Andalucía. Photograph: Alamy

The highlight, for me, however, is the Medina Azahara archaeological site, just out of town. Its construction was started in 936 by the first caliph of Al-Andalus, Abd al-Rahman III. This palace-city saw service for only 70 years but its evocative ruins and richly decorated archways are a powerful reminder of its opulence. Walking the Medina’s ancient stones as grasshoppers hop and jasmine scents the hot air, it’s easy to see the appeal of this strategic location, between the mountains and the Guadalquivir River.

Driving into the campsite afterwards, off a road flushed with hot pink oleanders, the landscape is washed in pale gold. Momentarily distracted by the view, I double-take as four hoopoes suddenly appear in front of me, their black and white stripes backlit by the sun. I probably ought to have taken a photo and posted it with the hashtag #kampaohvibes. Instead, I keep very still and watch. Some experiences are still tailormade for us analogue Gen Xers.

The trip was provided by the Spanish Tourist Office, with support from Andalucía and Kampaoh, which is open all year. Anza tents at Kampaoh Córdoba cost from €63 a night for two people, or from €76 a night for four; both minimum two nights

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How we survived a Spanish holiday with our teenagers | Andalucia holidays

They’ve packed too much, surely? The cabin crew do not look thrilled as I try to help squeeze each bag into the overhead lockers or the footwells under the seats in front. My 19-year-old has brought five and a half bikinis – we are away for a week – and her sister, four. (For comparison, I’ve taken my one and only pair of trunks.) The 19-year-old’s boyfriend has mercifully adopted a more minimal approach – just one wheelie for him – while the 17-year-old’s best friend has a different outfit for every day.

If there is an unusual sense of excitement among us right now, then it’s because of the extra human baggage in tow. The fact that each daughter has been permitted a plus-one on our family summer holiday this year means that we can still be together, but mostly apart.

It’s how they like it these days.

It happened slowly at first, and then all at once. We had previously been a tight family of four who enjoyed each other’s company and loved going abroad. But then the girls grew fully into their Kevin and Perry years, and abruptly our holidays became protracted affairs, pierced by arguments, sulking and occasional stormings off, my wife’s attempts at diplomacy mostly failing. One daughter wanted the beach, the other the swimming pool, and then both decided they would much rather just stay in bed all day. Their phones made everything so much worse.

Strolling in Cádiz’s old town. Photograph: Stefano Politi Markovina/Alamy

I was ready to give up on such holidays altogether, but my wife persisted. Our last attempt was two years ago. I recall one particular evening in Skiathos, when the then 17-year-old announced she was craving cocktails, so we went to a bar filled with young people and bought three full-powered ones and a non-alcoholic equivalent for the 15-year-old. The gesture failed. We sat in silence as my daughter fumed at our very presence (me in sandals), and I reeled at the €50 bar bill.

Each of us by now wanted different things from our time away. There was bickering over breakfast options and wifi reliability, while my wife maintained the conviction that any loose collection of bricks upon the island – which she quaintly termed “historical ruins” – was worth a 30-minute trek in 32C heat to go visit. All I wanted to do was sit in a cafe with a sea view and read my book.

Which is why this summer we said yes to them bringing guests. Add to the soup to dilute the soup. We’re in southern Spain. Here, the 19-year-old wants only to tan, the 17-year-old to swim in the pool. The boyfriend wants a football to kick, while the friend wants to have “fun”.

“Relax,” my wife tells me. “It’ll be fine.”

We arrive in Seville to thick heat and cicadas, and an immediate atmosphere of crop tops and flip-flops. Our hire car is enormous, a seven-seater, which the teens fill with pale, sprawled limbs. They are asleep within seconds of us hitting the motorway. It’s two hours to Cádiz, and I keep turning to look at them, to make sure they’re OK, these people we’re required to keep alive for the next seven days. When our daughters were younger, we would routinely meet their friends’ mothers and fathers, but all this stopped the moment they reached secondary school, when it became paramount to keep parents hidden over fears of public embarrassment.

And so these are the children of strangers, essentially. The weight of responsibility hangs heavy. Whenever we go away, the dog-sitter sends us photographs of the dog, presumably to show us that she is safe and well. Should we be doing the same here for the kids’ parents, and have them holding up today’s newspaper to confirm the date?

The writer’s daughters when family holidays were simpler affairs. Photograph: Nick Duerden

“I’ll deal with it,” my wife says, a woman with more numbers in her phone book than I have in mine.

We are staying in the small coastal town of Zahara de los Atunes, famed locally for its tuna, and where Spanish tourists appear to outnumber Brits by 99 to one. It is close to midnight when we arrive. The air-con is complicated, and the bedroom fans appear stricken with seizures. I’m exhausted, but the children experience a second wind. They want to go into town, which is a 20-minute walk or five minutes in the car. One of us will have to take them. We toss for it. My wife loses.

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Each morning, we awake to a mausoleum silence as they sleep off the effects of the night before. There are leftovers from their post-midnight snacks on the kitchen table, alongside the dregs of sticky alcoholic drinks, which the ants have found and are now busy informing all their friends about. My wife and I enjoy a quiet breakfast on the balcony, then pad early to the beach before the winds pick up. (By afternoon, the wind here, known as the levante, is strong enough to lift you from your towel and carry you across the Strait of Gibraltar before depositing you in Morocco.) We check our phones repeatedly for signs that the young ones have woken. When they do rouse, gone midday, they send us a list of requirements from the supermarket: chips and Haribo and Bacardi. We buy them fresh ingredients for summer salads instead.

All of us revert helplessly to type. We nag them about sunscreen and riptides, and make sure they know where the calamine lotion is. They sigh and mutter “yes, yes” and then ignore everything. We encourage them to drink plenty of water, and we navigate the minor squabbles that arise with nothing like aplomb. (It is too hot for aplomb.)

My wife suggests excursions, the usual tourist preoccupations: souvenir shops, a museum, one of those churches with the nice stained windows. But none of them seem much fussed. They want rum. I, meanwhile, have the latest Sally Rooney and 800 pages of Helen Garner’s diaries to get through.

The sisters outside a bakery in Cadiz. Photograph: Nick Duerden

We do occasionally come together as a group, like normal people. One day, we drive an hour to Cádiz, its picturesque old town full of narrow streets and a vibrant food market. We eat tapas and drink wine, and the plus-ones listen patiently while we tell silly family stories in the way that all families do – and, as with all families, probably reveal ourselves as eccentric at best, or else certifiably mad. But they tolerate us, the plus-ones, and that’s the main thing. It’s a lovely evening.

There’s a curious anticipation in the air when the time comes to go home. My wife and I are staying on for a few more days to explore the region in a smaller hire car, while the kids are returning for August jobs to help fund college and university.

At the departure gate, I surprise myself by crying. All four of them look so beautiful and tanned, glowing with youth and vitality, their wrists full of friendship bracelets. I watch them stride away, specifically towards customs but also on into adulthood, without us, and I am overcome with emotion and love. I want them to come back, to extend the family holiday, because I’m not ready to consign it to the past, not just yet. But I know, too, that this is life; that it’s wise to let them go, be free.

“Safe flight,” I cry out to them, a little too loudly. “Please remember to text when you land. Call me!”

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