Recipefiesta

The Filter’s authority on camping and the outdoors, Sian Lewis, will be answering all your questions on Wednesday 15 July from 1200 BST. Whether it’s about finding the perfect stove for baked beans or the best campsite ever, nothing is too detailed or too silly to ask

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Sundowners in nature, kids – and adults – unplugged from screens, escaping everyday life: camping is one of life’s unparalleled joys. Want to know what to look for in a sleeping mat, the best place to pitch a tent – or what to do when it all goes wrong? Outdoors journalist Sian Lewis has walked hundreds of miles and braved all weathers to test everything from tents to camping chairs to hiking sandals.

Post your questions below in the comments and she will answer as many as she can at 1200 BST on Wednesday 15 July.

Would walking buddies convince reluctant children that hiking can be fun? A group trip with an Enid Blyton vibe proved a hit with the whole family

“I’m not going to wake her up,” I hiss at my 12-year-old son who’s standing half naked in a dark corridor of a Victorian house. “Please, Mum. She said we could come at any time! I don’t want to get Lyme disease,” he begs.

This is not the kind of drama I was expecting when I signed up to a family walking holiday in Exmoor. A few meltdowns about an extra mile or a blister perhaps, but not a night mission to one of the guides to request a tick removal.

These cool, cheap bars in old abandoned buildings became popular in the 2000s – and then tourists moved in. I went hunting for the bohemian spirit of the originals

‘Many ruin bars seem to be just tourist traps now,” says artist István, standing outside Instant-Fogas complex, which calls itself Europe’s biggest ruin pub, but looks more like a mammoth nightclub with several dancefloors.

“These bars were a hot topic 20 years ago, but many have become really commercial now,’ says István. “Ruin bars being expensive actually ruins their purpose. I’m a student, I like beers that are under 1,000 forints [about £2.50], and the big commercial ruin bars are typically much more expensive.”

On a three-day fungi workshop in Australia’s largest cool temperate rainforest, Alexis Buxton-Collins unearths an unexpected appreciation for the third kingdom of life

Revered as one of Australia’s last true wilderness areas, Takayna/ Tarkine is a place of legends. Freshwater crayfish that can reach almost a metre in length lurk in the shade of 2000-year-old Huon pines, and every few years a rumour emerges that thylacines still prowl the dense Gondwanan rainforest of northwest Tasmania.

For 65m years, this landscape has sheltered all manner of astonishing creatures. But some of the most fascinating life forms found here are even older. Before animals walked the Earth or trees began converting carbon dioxide into oxygen, fungi helped to create the conditions necessary for complex life on our planet. “People often say that fungi grow in the forest,” Dr Alison Pouliot tells me as we inhale cool air perfumed with the gentle spice of sassafras. “But there wouldn’t be a forest without fungi. Fungi are the ecosystem engineers that created the foundation for the forest.”

Embarking on a girls’ trip to Greece, I was ready for unlimited fun in the sun. Instead, I ended up on a hospital ward where all the medics could say was: ‘Oh shit!’

In the heady days post A-levels, it felt like a great idea to spend all my hard-earned Saturday job wages on a girls trip to Corfu. I felt sure that what lay ahead was the classic rite of passage holiday of sun, sea and Sex on the Beaches. What happened next may not sound so surprising this side of a global pandemic, but in 2009 it felt like something out of a sci-fi horror film.

I didn’t feel great on the drive to Bristol airport, but explained it away as motion sickness; I tried to sleep it off on the plane, ready to start the party when we landed. At Greek passport control, there were heat-sensitive cameras to check for anyone with a temperature, due to the growing swine flu pandemic. As my friends walked through, they appeared on the screen as shadowy grey figures. I showed up lurid green, indicating a high temperature. Immediately, it was panic stations. I was rapidly ushered into a side room alone, then rushed away in an ambulance. The party, it appeared, would not be starting.

Surfers nicknamed it in the 90s, but this rugged coastline is becoming a hotspot for contemporary art lovers too

The North Sea wind is buffeting my body and face, shaking me awake after a six-hour journey from Copenhagen on buses and trains to this rugged stretch of the Danish coast. From my high vantage point on the grassy dunes, overlooking what feels like an endless sea, there is hardly another soul to be seen, save for the specks of a few surfers who are trying their luck on the crashing waves.

Surfers, windsurfers and paddleboarders flock to this stretch of north-west Jutland, which is playfully known as “Cold Hawaii”. The phrase was coined in the 1990s by the international surfing community, and popularised by world champion windsurfer Josh Stone, to describe this laid-back shoreline and its 31 official surf spots running for around 30 miles (50km) from a little north of the industrial harbour of Hanstholm down to the sandy beaches of Agger.

Excited to be away from home for the first time, we spent a riotous week partying, while the owner and his elderly parents understandably – and often audibly – seethed

Twenty British 16-year-olds rent a remote Sicilian villa for a week of partying and late-night binge drinking. It sounds like a holiday host’s nightmare. Well, anyone’s nightmare. Add in the fact that the host was staying on site with his elderly Italian parents, as the teenagers partied on without a care for their own welfare or anyone else’s. This wasn’t a holiday from hell for my teenage self, but I’m pretty sure it was for our hosts.

It was 2013 and, for many of us, it was the first time we had been away just with friends. Let loose from familial constraints, it was easy to get carried away. I arrived a few days later than the others but was the main contact with our host, Pablo. This meant that, before I even set foot in the villa, I received a string of messages threatening to kick us out. The police had apparently already been called after two late nights of nonstop boozing.