BACK AT THE WARREN, the stifling confines of our tent—and a seriously depleted stock of alcohol—have made my fellow glampers restless. And so, just three hours after our arrival, we pile into the cars to find the nearest pub.

Five miles of coastline later, we roll up to the Park Inn. Inside, it's warm and dry, and there are hand-pulled pints of Guinness and steaming plates of food. We laugh, drink, and stuff our faces. Revitalized, everyone starts talking about how much fun they had in the rain and why being outdoors is so great—even though we aren't

"I've loved camping since I was a kid," Imogen says as she carves away at a steak. "I remember me, my brother, dad, and stepmother all staying in one of those tiny triangular orange tents built for two."

"I didn't really do any camping until just a couple of years ago," Karen admits. "But it's become about the things I enjoy, like good food and music, so I've gotten into it."

Eventually we drive back to the soggy tents, where we resume our own mini-festival. The air is thick with hash smoke and the floor is rolling with wine-bottle empties. Around midnight, a neighbor hollers to ask if we can keep the noise down, giving us a smug sense of satisfaction.

On Sunday morning, I wake up to yet more raindrops. I apparently fell asleep about a foot away from my Therm-a-Rest, and my cheek is stuck to bare tent floor. I open one eye—a champagne glass lying on its side comes into focus. Looking around, I see a small puddle of red wine near my feet. Someone has left a sombrero.

From the looks of the bedraggled glampers, our hopes of a lazy morning wandering the beach are about as likely as sunshine. Imogen runs off to dry her Wellies under the bathroom's hand dryer while the rest of us slowly come to life. Everything is taking twice as long as it should. I stagger around in bare feet, mud squishing between my toes, in an effort to get packed and on the road to London as quickly as possible.

But then I hear Imogen working away, and I turn around to see that croissants have been beautifully laid out on plates, pillows have been fluffed, and a bowl full of fruit sits beside a steaming pot of tea. Everyone stops what they're doing and sits down to breakfast. Imogen smiles and utters the two words that would fortify the courage of glampers anywhere:

"Mimosas, anyone?"