Camping to me means being the forest, with pine trees and lakes and maybe a stream, creek or river. It cracks me up when I hear people say that they’re going camping at the beach. I live within driving/biking distance of the beach, and the beach is near civilization, meaning 7–11 stores, gas stations and bars. That’s not camping, that’s an extended beach barbecue.
I need tents in the woods, or RV’s or camp trailers. Those are fine too. You have to cook outdoors, preferably over an open campfire, but a camp stove is OK too. If you cook on a camp stove, you still have to have a campfire in your camp, to consider it to be real camping, though. Campfires are for telling ghost stories, for singing around, and for warming your tootsies, better yet for making s’mores, frying up bacon and eggs, roasting weenies, and making coffee. The smell of a campfire is more than 50% of what camping is all about.
I prefer to sleep in a tent or in an RV or camping trailer, rather than completely outside or on the ground, which is too cold, too hard, and there are too many bugs, and if it was like the last time I went camping, too many coyotes running through the campsite in the middle of the night.
Camping, for me, should be done in the warm summer months, not when it’s cold, and especially not in winter time or in the snow. That’s not camping, that’s torture. If I wanted to freeze my butt off, I’d camp in the refrigerated milk room at Costco.