Of caravans and cats
- By Alison
- 17 August, 2009
- 2 Comments
We’ve just spent a week camping in Devon, living in George (our VW camper) and an annexe. Peeping out of our tent flap we’ve laughed and snickered at the folks going back and forth, wondering how embarrassed they must be to simply exist. We travellers consider ourselves above “caravan folk”
I have to confess, that actually I have grown up as “caravan folk” but over the years, the exact type has changed.
I spent my formative years enjoying holiday weeks in Budgewoi, in a campsite called Sunnylake Caravan Park. (I had two t-shirts of the same name, although I admit I cut holes all over one of them in the 80’s craze of snipped up layers ala Cindi Lauper.)
Sunnylake doesn’t have an internet presence, which is a shame because I’d love to see how it looks now. Back then it was a grid of gravel roads with cement caravan foundations evenly spaced up and down. There was a small shop at the top which sold 1c sweets in bags, tennis courts behind the shop, and a toilet block with showers and laundry in the centre. The gravel roads led downhill to a small beach and a boat ramp onto Lake Munmorah.
We did a lot of sailing on that lake, mostly in Heron’s, which my dad loved. It wasn’t a deep lake, which didn’t really become obvious until the particularly blowy day that we watched about 5 catamaran’s capsize and get their masts stuck in the mud. They didn’t have too much trouble righting them, but the display of black sticky mud that arced out and then rained down on their hapless bonces was priceless.
Our caravan sat all year round on this spot, with an orange striped annexxe to one side. We had a chemical toilet in the van, but it was almost never used – it would have to be a rare case of explosive diarrhea that got you the priviledge of squatting over its blue and pungeant trap. (I seem to recall that an extreme bout of constipation may have provided similar status, but we don’t need to go into that!).
Even late at night we’d head on up the little gravel road to the communal toilet block. There wasn’t a fear of stranger danger, it was such a familar place that you couldn’t imagine worrying about it. (It’s quite possible that my mother DID worry, but as with all adolescents, I was totally oblivious to anyone else’s mental state.)
When we went to the caravan, we spent a lot of time there, at the park. We didn’t need to fill up every day with day trips here and there. There was tennis, sailing, biking and a BMX track to play on. There were woods that I wasn’t allowed in (and went in anyway), a lakeside hill covered in twisted gums that made fantastic tree houses, and a playground with one climbing frame in it.
The latter is how I made friends. The climbing frame may have started life as something else, since all it was comprised of was four 8 foot legs and two cross bars. If you couldn’t shimmy up one of the legs, you didn’t get up at all. And apparently no-one else could do it. So every summer i’d climb up and wait for the local gaggle to arrive. Then after they expressed their admiration at my monkey-like prowess, we’d be fast friends and I’d be in the gang.
After a few years, we no longer owned the caravan. I have a feeling it blew away in a storm or something. But my parents bought a boat, and we’d go and do the same thing on that (the biking was slightly more difficult I might add). I didn’t do the caravan thing for many years after that, but then we bought George.
George is a caravanette, apparently. He’s a VW Camper, and he’s only 2 years younger than me. He has gaffer tape holding on entire side panels. But he represents freedom in a way a “mobile home” doesn’t. He also represents cramped living spaces fairly well too. We don’t dwell too much on that!
George doesn’t have a satellite dish attached to the front like most of the caravans in the park we were in. He also doesn’t drive us to the toilet block like some of the laziest campers did every day in their cars. When you’re in George, you don’t think that a fun day in the campsite would involve sitting in him all day watching TV either. He makes you be free spirited whether you want to or not!
Having George does mean that when we want to go somewhere we need to pack up the table, detach him from the tent and zip the side up, but on the plus side – I can make a cappucino anywhere I like!
So am I entitled to laugh at “caravan folk” who struggle to empty their chemical toilets every morning because they were lazy to walk to the toilet block? Or indeed, who don’t walk anyway, but drive their car the distance of 17 caravans? Or who have traded their lounge room chair for a caravan sofa but are still watching the same soaps all day? Or who actually iron their clothes while living in a tent? Please say yes, I do so want to!
But maybe they’d be laughing at me if the knew what was going on in my house while we were away! There are now 12 loads of washing tower in the conservatory, and the washing machine is glaring at me with undisguised disapproval. Only about 4 of those loads are camping clothes however. The rest are made up of duvets, sheets and throws that I covered the sofa’s with while we were away.
And boy am I glad I decided to do that! There was cat hair everywhere.
The catsitter wasn’t able to lock Toby in the house each evening, so she left the catflap on “in only” which meant that once he came in he couldn’t get out again. Which worked a treat for Toby. And Ollie. And Ginger. Ew! Cat parties in my house with the neighbour’s cats! I had to ask her to lock him in properly for one night to just ensure no extras, but the very next night Ollie was in again!
The first thing I did when we arrived home was trawl the house sniffing for little cat presents in unlikely places. Fortunately, none were found, other than a flat little hair ball under the table.
Maybe if I’d had a really huge caravan I could have taken him with us! I can just see the enthusiasm dripping out of his acid yellow stare.
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