We're no fans of camping. Years of holidays under canvas when our kids were little left an indelible mark that has proved stubbornly resistant in the intervening decades since they flew the nest.

Once they'd gone and the financial burden of raising three children was lifted – our own fault, I realise – it was boutique hotels, Egyptian cotton and Neal's Yard bath products all the way. No more cold and damp mornings, gradually deflating airbeds and tepid showers for us.

The final camping straw came one weekend many moons ago as I prepared to hammer home the last peg securing our monstrous, multi-roomed home from home into rock-hard earth as sundown approached somewhere on the Kent coast. We were around two hours into the task at this point, looking forward to opening the wine. A vintage Mini pulled up at the pitch opposite. Two young Dutch fellas sprang out – matching tans, sun-bleached hair and perfect teeth. One whipped out a ladder from the boot, while the other undid a clip on a big box attached to the roof rack of their tiny car. Unfold and – lo and behold! – a tent sprang up. They clambered inside, settled down, and were snug in their sleeping bags before we could even wield the corkscrew…

The following morning, I watched in awe as they reversed the process and were on their way in less than ten minutes. And vowed never again to subject the family to this ridiculous notion that any part of the experience of wrangling guy ropes, bendy poles and groundsheets was enjoyable. Perhaps we weren't the outdoor types after all. I had seen the future. It was just unclear when that future would become the present.

Turns out it is now. The longwinded intro above is a roundabout way of saying I am borrowing a TentBox the week after we go to press and hitting the New Forest for a few nights. If me and the car rooftop canvas gizmo get on well (Mrs C has neatly swerved the test run, claiming to be "too busy with work"), I'm looking at the Tour route. France is my oyster. But where to go? Alpe d'Huez is not my vibe. Barcelona, Carcassonne and the Pyrenees most definitely are. Then dip back in for stages 11 and 12, bang smack in the middle of the country, hang for a few days, then hit Paris for the big finish.

Should you spot a blue Škoda with a strange box up top deep in La France Profonde while watching the Tour on telly, that'll probably be me. No campsites, no hotels, no press accreditation – just winging it. And there's nowhere I'd rather be.