Bring it on, says Jennifer Lipman 

It’s not fun, obviously. Shivering away, below a ceiling of browning leaves and rotting pomegranates, sitting on uncomfortable folding chairs, painfully aware that your toasty house is just inches away and that you are dining in a glorified shed in a notional and rather nonsensical tribute to your biblical ancestors.

Succot is the final sprint in the marathon of autumnal festivals; the dregs of the yomtov glass. After the hours of praying in Rosh Hashanah, and the hollow hunger of Yom Kippur, Succot is ostensibly the reward, the easy bit. That is, if easy involved building a hut in your garden, and wondering if those spots of rain on your stuffed cabbage are about to turn into a downpour.

As a permanently cold person — the kind who wears a scarf indoors in August and still complains she’s freezing — I should loathe Succot and the requirement to chow down in a temporary dwelling. It’s a faff; if the weather is balmy then you’re sharing the schach with the wasps; if not, and you’re eating outside as Jack Frost lurks. Perhaps if we Jews were all in Israel, this bizarre custom would make more sense.

Yet, I love eating in the succah —whether it’s my father’s complex, weatherbeaten contraption, or a pop-up tent more suited to the instant gratification generation.

There’s something wonderful about the ancient children’s artwork on the walls and the spray-painted conkers above, or the hanging plastic fruit that surely serve no other useful purpose. I love snuggling up close because the succah was built for when your family numbered in single figures only, and wrapping up in boots and thick coats just to travel a few feet.

I even love the memory of getting locked out in my sister’s succah one chilly October night, and trying to work out if her three-year-old son could let us back in.

I can’t understand people who just make kiddush in the succah then rush back indoors, or who install a sliding roof in the kitchen as a nod to tradition. Because it isn’t supposed to be fun. Complaining about eating in the succah is as much a part of Succot as the lulav and etrog; like so much of Judaism, it’s about worthy suffering.

Our ancestors struggled in bondage, later they faced pogroms and worse. Eating in our suburban gardens — with portable heaters and hot soup — really isn’t that bad by comparison.

I'd rather be inside, says Angela Epstein  

There are many —  very many — Jewish laws and customs which, to the casual onlooker, appear,  at best, baffling and, at worst, utterly bonkers. And most of the time, well, who cares? After all, it’s tradition, innit?

But there’s one aspect of our otherwise wonderful religion which has me whimpering in despair —eating in the succah. Here in the UK, when the wasps are in their death throes after a bacchanalian summer, a deep cold seeps up through the slats of  a rock hard folding chair. These biblical  Portakabins have about as much room as a store changing cubicle, only with  more people.

What’s more, Succot falls at the time of year when he who pays the heating bills  grudgingly agrees to let me turn the radiators on. So, just as  the house  finally achieves some level of toastiness, I must turn my back on that soft, doughy warmth and eat outside. Outside!

I cling to Orthodoxy (mostly) like a life raft since the rhythm of Judaism  frames my situation and gives comfort to my lot. I love the fact that our ancient laws and traditions, continue to provide guidance in the slow murmur of their unchanged ways.

But I’m human and this is the UK — a place where Hurricane Moishe is, according to that nice lady on the telly, only a few isobars away. And eating in a damp hut with somebody’s elbow in my bowl of  (rapidly cooling) chicken soup isn’t my idea of a good time. Sure, there’ll doubtless be some portable heater weakly pumping out a little warmth. But while it’s easy to raise the roof, it isn’t that simple to lift the temperature.

Of course, it’s all very different in Israel where I’ve been fortunate to spend Succot for the past few years (thank you, big brother, for making aliyah). There, the al fresco, or rather  “al succo”, experience is charming thanks to the dying breath of warm summer air. That means the fulfilment of  sitting in an outdoor hut which commemorates God’s protection of the Children of Israel is much easier  Although the air-fares can be painful.

There are many beautiful things about Succot. The little, foliage-covered booths spangled with tinsel and children’s paintings are a tender and heart-warming tableau of Jewish continuity. This is especially true when many question their faith. And my faith is strong. The problem is that my discomfort threshold isn’t.