One area that the novice diver approaching his first diving season gets no guidance on whatsoever from the BSAC diving manual is where to stay during club outings. I suppose that it is assumed that divers magically materialise at the appropriate time and place to launch club inflatables and retreat into black holes or something overnight. Personally I’ve encountered a fair amount of accommodation that falls into the black-hole category so, in the hope dear reader that you don’t follow in my footsteps, I write that you may learn from my mistakes.

The true ‘roughy-toughy’ hairy-arse diver sleeps under the club’s upturned boat, of course, using the outboard engine as a pillow. If questioned he will give as his reason the fact that he overheard some rival club planning to steal the fuel line from the club’s treasured pre-war Mariner outboard. It takes years of practice to become ‘roughy-toughy’ though. You must work your way up through many stages of sensory deprivation. The first stage is called. camping.

Camping is cheap and cheerful. And if you survive the first season you will probably forget how awful it is over the winter lay-off sufficiently to try it again the next year. You see them (the blind optimists) at the beginning of every season in Force 8 gales, desperately spraying canvas sealant on holes that they imagined had healed themselves during winter storage.

Camping has a lot to commend it, however. It’s a straightforward life in the open air once you have mastered the basic campsite etiquette. It is necessary to become well versed in the art of finding suitable Sites (logbook endorsements are available for erecting tents in low viz and moving water). Final choice of site for the discerning diver/camper (should we call them "dampers"?) is usually governed by geographical factors such as proximity to toilet areas and parties of giggling schoolgirls.

By far the most difficult technique the novice must learn is being able to sneak on and off sites without having to pay. (Arriving after dark and pretending to be having sex when the farmer comes or the money usually does the trick!) And, talking of sex, we all know that sex in tents is not the same thing as intense sex - yet some individuals still persist in the misguided belief that the acoustic insulating properties of canvas cover their indiscretions from the rest of the branch.

The campervan is a favoured institution for the diver with a family (or common sense), and is a natural progression for anyone who managed to survive the pneumonia that they caught camping in their first season. The freedom of the open road is for these divers - even if campervans are so slow that you have to set out a week before the rest of the branch in order to arrive on time. Still, once you get there you can have the satisfaction of looking down your nose at the other campers.

However, campervan divers may have left behind the soggy sleeping bags, but they have swapped them for a whole new set of problems such as which Laura Ashley seat covers to choose. Yuppie divers have designer filofax dashboards installed to log their bottom times.

One feature of the campervan that is a must is the bar. Unfortunately, as we all know, real ale doesn’t travel too well and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to park over a convenient wine cellar. The campervan diver must therefore resort to real men’s drinks such as martinis (shaken not stirred) and low-alcohol lagers.

There is, of course, another type of diver, one who despises the high-fibre, quiche-eating outdoor type. A breed apart, these individuals only get their bottles pumped in large cities, as fresh air is pollution to them. These are the real masochists, who submit their bodies to the ordeal of…the B & B. For just a few pounds a night you can share a room at the B & B of your choice with a snoring buddy (or buddies if you end up in a bunkhouse). Ah the heady aroma of stale sweat old fart!

Should one branch encounter another at such places they invariably pretend to be hard-boat divers (even though you passed them on the way down repairing a wheel on their trailer in a lay-by on the A31). "Oh yeah 60m, in a cave under ice—and that was just snorkelling!" they boast.

And what of that other great British institution? The backbone of the nation and the diver’s surrogate mother - Seaside Landladies. Yes, they really know what we want - lights out by closing time, a warm(ish) meal to line our stomachs, a ring around the bath to make us feel at home. Do we begrudge them the way that they hide the towels so we don’t steal them on our last day? Perish the thought!

No, seriously, the image of the seaside landlady is much maligned. There have been many improvements in recent years. For instance, I haven’t seen a landlady who hadn’t polished her jackboots for ages. My gosh, now some even shave twice a day!

So finally, the question on all your lips I’m sure where do I lay my head. Well, I stay on diving’s front line: The Hilton. But I do rough it too. I insist they serve my gin sling in a dirty glass.

Photography and text by  Benny Sutton Cartoon by Rico - article first published Diver magazine