Girls will be Boys - on holiday, by Dea Birkett

We spent the weekend doing the Dangerous Book for Boys trail in a forest on Trentham estate, in Staffordshire near Stoke-on-Trent, with...... a girl! Well, a boy as well. The eight-year-old twins are a mixed bunch; one male, one female. I've always regarded their rearing as a social experiment on the 'Nature or Nurture?' debate. If I called my boy River 'pretty' and my girl Savanna 'handsome', would it make a difference? Or is feminine hard-wired, made up with sugar and spice from birth? And masculine determined by tetesterone?

Holidays, however, have never presented the same opportunities for me to become an amateur professor of gender studies. We go away, we usually go swimming, we all do about the same sorts of things. I've noticed that, if horse riding happens to be on offer, it's usually Savanna who takes it up the most enthusiastically. What is it with small girls and ponies?

So an experience modelled on the Dangerous Book for Boys, which no self-respecting eight-year-old girl would be seen turning a single page of, presented a great opportunity for me to continue my studies on holiday, not just at home. Our forest leader Christian Fox was like a Ray Mears for kids, with camoflauge pants and a very, very soft voice, encouraging us to commune with nature. First, he showed us how to build a shelter, to protect us from the wind and rain. 'And the bears?' asked Savanna. 'No, no bears in Staffordshire,' said Christian gently. Savanna was clearly disappointed. River was relieved.

River sent Savanna off to gather the sticks to build the shelter's skeleton, displaying no desire to delve any deeper into the wood. When she returned with big bundles, it was River who measured them up against each other, to see if they were the correct length, before sending Savanna back out to gather dried grass for the roof. I seemed to vaguely remember, from my Geography GCSE, that women were the gatherers in primitive societies and - perhaps - on Dangerous Book for Boys weekends.

Once our twig and grass wigwam was built, we had to strike up a fire to keep us warm. This involved some imagination. It was a very hot summer afternoon in Staffordshire, and none of us were chilly. Christian provided the flint and warned us sternly, 'Don't try this at home.' Savanna took hold of the flat stone like a born cavewoman, lighting the dried birch bark on the first go.

We found North by checking the moss on the tree trunks, picked nettles without stinging ourselves to cook for supper later, and learnt how to wield an axe. Or rather, Savanna did. By that time, River was exhausted and sat down in the entrance of the shelter, staring calmly at the rustling trees.

A weekend for boys has convinced me that there's no such thing. I'm signing Savanna up for a football break next.