CONCORD — Based on the enticing photographs, the tent resembled something that dropped from outer space, or maybe it looked more like a gargantuan species of garlic found growing in the Amazon. Either way, this spaceship-garlic tent appeared to be a very appealing option for my inaugural glamping trip. I pictured it filled with champagne and chandeliers while I sat outside by the fire wrapped in a cashmere blanket listening to the whip-poor-wills.

But expectations can often outweigh reality, and in this case reality slapped me hard, much the way Raquel Welch slapped her on-screen daughter in the 1988 made-for-TV movie “Scandal in a Small Town.’’ As I stood sweating with a set of instructions in my hand trying to figure out how to assemble a mammoth 16-foot Lotus Belle tent, I thought I must be doing something wrong. Glamping is a portmanteau of glamour and camping, but so far it was all camp.

Where was my glamour?

Glamping is a trend that has been rapidly passing me by, partially because it seemed like a pricey endeavour. I couldn’t afford proper glamp necessities, such as an exotic $2,400 glamping-ready structure like the Lotus Belle tent. But I got lucky. I recently had an opportunity to test one for a night. As soon as I received the notification it was coming I began searching the back of my refrigerator for that bottle of champagne as I started plotting out my posh adventure. A weekend on one of the Boston Harbor Islands? Maybe a remote lakeside spot shaded by pines with a sunset view?

But when the massive tent arrived, it came in two canvas bags that I could barely lift. There was no way I could cart the big garlic bulb tent to the Harbor Islands or a serene lake without dislocating a shoulder. It needed to be driven in a car. Now I know why people leave these tents up for months at a time.

I couldn’t find a glampground. (Note to self: Open a glampground.) My compromise location was a friend’s backyard in Concord. It wasn’t an island or a lake, but there would be a fire pit and a house just feet away with a hot shower and a refrigerator to keep my champagne cold. Most importantly, there would be friends there to help me assemble the tent.

I began to suspect that tent assembly might be a problem when I saw a YouTube video of an 8-year-old wearing a batman costume and a top hat putting up a Lotus Belle tent in 20 minutes. Anytime you see an 8-year-old who looks like he was plucked from a Wes Anderson film completing a complicated task in 2o minutes, you know there are going to be problems.

“If it’s glamping, shouldn’t someone be putting up the tent for you?’’ my friend Jeff asked as he helped me drive a series of 30 stakes into the ground. I didn’t have the heart to tell Jeff that he was filling the role of glamp laborer quite nicely. I had decided to take on more of a managerial job and decipher a set of instructions that resembled the menu from a vegan restaurant as illustrated by Peter Max.

It didn’t take us 20 minutes to put up the tent. It took more than an hour. The tent was massive. We could easily stand in it, which was fortunate because the test model I borrowed needed to be vacuumed and mopped. Whoever used it before us was clearly unaware that you should take off your shoes before you get into a tent that takes an hour to assemble.

I brought along all the glamping necessities: A charcuterie platter, an assortment of sandwiches including goat cheese, arugula, and fig jam on ficelle, prosecco and rosé, a two-layer inflatable bed with my favorite Marimekko linens, a battery-operated record player and a stack of 1960s pop records, enough stylish rechargeable lights to illuminate Minneapolis during a blackout, a selection of Malin + Goetz toiletries pilfered from some of my favorite hotels, and, as a nod to being outside, ingredients for s’mores. I had planned to mix up a batch of s’mores martinis, but my car was so full by the time I departed for my Concord glampsite that I didn’t have room for a martini shaker or the proper glassware.

What I didn’t bring: Insect repellent.

I would have traded the charcuterie plate and the Marimekko linens for a few sprays of repellent. The insects found us tastier than the goat cheese, arugula, and fig jam on ficelle. For some reason my hosts Jeff and Ronni had no repellent. Friends dropped off a small bottle of citronella essence from Peru. I think pisco sours would have worked better at driving them away. The persistent buzzing may have cut down on our campfire time, but it meant that we could get into that gorgeous tent sooner.

Ronni decided she wanted to sleep in the tent with me. I was happy to have the companionship because a fox was barking in the cemetery across the street. Have you ever heard a fox barking? If your answer is no then consider yourself lucky. Another thing I forgot to pack: A whistle to scare off barking foxes.

We played Bananagrams in the tent, drank prosecco, and took silly pictures of each other. Despite the other hardships — which were minimal — this was insanely fun. The ambient lighting and the late hour had us sleepy and ready for bed.

I’m a very light sleeper and before bed I asked Ronni if she snored. She seemed insulted by the question. Of course she didn’t, how dare I ask. About five minutes after lights out, I thought I heard a pack of angry cemetery foxes growling. It turns out it was Ronni snoring. I put in earplugs, which helped only slightly. I tossed around on the giant inflatable bed. There were no whip-poor-wills, just Ronni’s tent-rattling snores. At 4 a.m. I got up, walked across the freshly-mopped tent floor and went inside to sleep on her sofa.

Some may see my inaugural glampout as a bit of a flop. But I see the champagne flute as half full. For some people glamour comes naturally. I learned that for me, glamour requires a lot of work. I also learned that glamour requires a lot of insect repellent.

Christopher Muther can be reached at muther@globe.com. Follow him on Twitter @Chris_Muther and on Instagram @Chris_Muther.