Getting ready!

We're starting to get the van ready for the new season. Everything seems to be working OK. I filled the tanks, setup the toilet, and drove around the block a few times and filled up with diesel. It still smells sweet, with no sign of dampness after the winter.

It's 2007 already!

I've not done much since November. We put the van into mothballs (sort of) - drained the tanks (and the water heater), put in an oil-filled radiator to keep the frost off. To be honest, it still smells fresh and dry whenever I get in there.

I washed the roof one day, which was disgustingly filthy. I have a picture on the other computer, which I'll upload when I get up there.

I moved it once to cut down some of the overhanging branches from the tree next door to it. I've started the engine a few times, and I've recharged the engine battery when I forgot to start it!

And that's about it. Next major jaunt is across to France with MotorhomeFacts at Easter, which we're looking forward to. We'll try and get out in it before then, just to make sure everything works OK.

Walton on the Naze – 14th / 15th Oct 2006

Sorry - no photos with this report.

It had been some while since we’d been to Walton, and we felt guilty about leaving the beach hut for so long. So Annie booked us into the Naze Marine campsite, and after she’d been to the hairdresser on Saturday morning, we set off, going the A13 / A120 route, Traffic was okay, with no hold-ups, and we arrived in Walton at around 1.30pm.

It was difficult to find the reception, since the whole of the entrance area seemed to be filled with new static caravans, and lots of banners and flags. Annie saw the small sign, and we parked up.

Check-in was efficient, and we got a posh coloured folder, with all sorts of bumf in it, probably more to do with holiday homes and static caravans than anything useful. We had been told where the clubhouse was, and we had our temporary members’ tickets, which I suspected we wouldn’t be using.

We have been coming to Walton for a few years now. Unlike a lot of Walton visitors, neither of us had been born in East London, so we couldn’t claim a long pedigree of Walton holidays as some can, but we’d ‘found’ it when we were looking for a weekend retreat. Finances at the time dictated that we should buy a static caravan, and Annie and Paul had toured the area, looking at caravan parks. All of them had been rejected as being full of apprentice chavs. Annie and I had visited one (for which we’d needed to make an appointment) one Saturday morning, and it was horrible.

I suppose a lot of people like these places. Big, sprawling acreages of rectangular static caravans, swimming pools, clubhouses (with ‘entertainment’), and horrible East London chavs. In the Clacton area, there seems to be scores of these places. I know (personally) people who have places on these sites, and they seem to love them. They’re not for us.

We dutifully looked at the second-hand vans on sale, and it was depressing. Faded fabrics, dated design, and that nasty, ‘damp’ smell that you get as soon as you open the door. We left, promising to think about the special deal we’d been offered and, to ourselves, vowed never to return.

From the Ordnance Survey map, we located the caravan parks in Walton, and we found one, seemingly tucked out of the way on the ‘quiet’ side of Walton. We liked it as soon as we drove in. It was quiet, it was small (only 100 vans on-site), and what people we saw ‘looked’ quiet and friendly. We popped into the clubhouse, saw Brian, discovered he had a new van for sale and a plot for it to go on, and the deal was done.

We had that van for about a year, before the desire for a more permanent weekend residence coincided with a new build of some flats, which coincided with Annie seeing them and the sea view from the upstairs flats, and we called our mortgage advisor. In our few years visiting Walton, we’d come to know Naze Marine, without ever being inside it. We’d walked around the back a number of times, along a sea wall, and been amazed at how many caravans they had on site, and how crowded-in they were. The noises from the clubhouse were never really obtrusive, but you could hear them, and imagine the scene inside. Not our cup of tea.

We used the flat for two years, before we started renting it out. We’ve bought and sold a few beach huts, and currently own one in the rearmost row on South Cliff, so we really like visiting Walton. If we could link this with decent overnight parking, we’d visit more often.

Anyhow, back at Naze Marine, we followed the directions on the little map to the touring area. Our impression of the whole park was that it was very busy for this time of year. Maybe the unseasonably warm weather had brought people out, or maybe they were shutting their vans up for the winter. We slowly meandered our way through, and found the touring pitches. A slightly muddy field, sloping, with hookup points that had seen better days, and a toilet / shower block made from portacabins. It didn’t look good.

I parked up, and Annie went to look at the toilet block. I hooked up, levelled the van on the ramps, and Annie returned, telling me we weren’t staying. She said the toilets were disgusting, and the whole block was repulsive. Reasonable grounds for leaving, I suppose. We drove back to the reception area, Annie made her point, and we left.

We parked on the sea front, and walked to our beach hut. We’d forgotten just how pleasant it could be, sitting out on the deck, no noise except for the sound of the sea about fifty feet below us. We made a cup of tea, and read the papers.

Someone came by and stopped to chat, who turned out to be our new neighbour. We’d known the previous owners were thinking of selling, but we hadn’t known they’d actually sold it. He was a pleasant chap, slightly dotty, but very chatty, which suits us fine.

We met another of our ‘neighbours’, who had missed us in the two months or so since we’d been down. We chatted amiably for a while, and he left, and we returned to our newspapers. We mentioned the fact that we were without a pitch for the night, and he told us he’d seen campervans parked on the front at Frinton. We resolved to have a look.

If Clacton is chav city, then Frinton is Wrinkly Town. It is well known as a retirement town, perhaps like Eastbourne. The ferry port of Harwich is a few miles away to the north, and apparently people used to say “Harwich for the continent, Frinton for the incontinent.” Perhaps unkind, but the Frinton town council have made strenuous efforts to keep the town ‘olde-worlde’. Slightly famously, they forbid the selling of ice creams on the sea front, and for years, they wouldn’t allow a pub or a chip shop to open. They have a pub on the main street, but it can’t play music, and there’s a chip shop, but it’s tucked discreetly away down a side street.

When the temperature suddenly dropped at the beach huts, we packed up, and went back towards the town, stopping to buy fish and chips.

I do it every time. I get hungry, we decide to have perhaps one of my favourite meals, and I have a full portion of fish and chips. There’s nothing wring with that, but afterwards, it sits on my stomach like a huge, stodgy mess of potato and cod. I don’t know what it is, whether I’m already fat enough, and my body is trying to teach me a lesson, or maybe I’m getting old, and need to start cutting down on my food intake, so that I can become like an old person, spending hours fussing over a small plate of food, and then leaving half of it. I guess I’ll never learn, and the value of Rennie shares will continue to climb.

We drove along the front at Frinton, and as our beach hut mate had said, the signs say you can park for up to 24 hours. But then it said “no overnight parking, no camping”, which is strange. It didn’t make sense, but every sign along the front was the same. There’s a section at the far of the Greensward, where the parking bays are not angled like they are near to the centre, but narrower, and longitudinal. There were no signs here, and we wondered if this was a wild camping spot. Knowing Frinton as we did, it looked unlikely, so we headed home.

Just one more place to try, which was Homestead Lakes, where we’d spent our first night with Polly. It’s a lovely site, with hardstanding, hookup and water to every pitch, but when we arrived, we were told it was full. “A Caravan Club rally,” we were told. We were disappointed, until Annie asked “there’s nowhere else around here, is there?” The man thought for a second, and said: “There’s the Stranger’s Home – they usually have spaces behind the pub.” Music to our ears. He gave us directions, and off we drove.

Around twenty minutes later, we drew up outside The Stranger’s Home in Bradfield, and found our way to the camping field out the back. A nice, flat, green field, with about a dozen caravans, of which around half were occupied. We went into the pub, paid our £11, and parked the van on a pitch where there was hookup available.

We settled down for the night, and got good TV reception due to there being a TV transmitter mast a couple of miles away.

We enjoyed a pleasant night. The next morning, the showers, however, weren’t very pleasant, and only scored 2 out of 10 apiece. We were first to leave the site, just after 9am.

Burnham on Crouch - 7th / 8th Oct 2006

It seems to have been weeks since we went away. Well, it has been weeks since we went away. The last time that Polly went on her travels, she went to Whitstable, which seems positively eons ago. Three weeks. Too long.

We left home at about 10 o’clock on Saturday morning. Late for us, but sleep is sometimes a mistress who won’t be ignored. And I’m a sucker for a warm bed and sweet dreams.

Out along the A12, before Gladys realised where she was, and we headed out along the A127, past Cranham Caravans, and past Basildon which, as far as I can remember, is the best way to treat Basildon. She told us to turn left, and then do something at a roundabout, but there was no left turn. We carried on, until a major junction about half a mile further on, where she instructed us to turn round,

We turned round, came back down the A127, and she told us to take the exit, and turn right. Once again, there was no exit. We carried on, back towards London. A couple of miles allowed us to turn around, once again, and proceed the way we went originally. This time, thanks to a small tailback, we chugged along, watching carefully. Gladys announced it was time to turn off. There was nowhere to turn off. There was no road, no roundabout, no nuffink. We took the next exit, decided our own route, marvelled at how Gladys showed us a roundabout which clearly didn’t exist, and hadn’t existed for a good few years.

Gladys then settled down after her brief faux pas, and eventually arrived at the “Burnham Bends”. I didn’t know they were called the “Burnham Bends” until I saw it on the tee shirt of a motorcyclist at the village café. “I survived the Burnham Bends”, it said, with a cartoon picture of a motorbike, and a swirly line behind it. You can see them clearly on the Ordnance Survey map of the area (no. 168), as a series of 90 degree kinks in the road from Althorne into Burnham.

About an hour after setting off, we arrived in Burnham on Crouch. We’d been here before, to look at a static caravan. We didn’t buy it then, but I remember being quite impressed with the village atmosphere of … well, the village. And the pubs. And the fact that one of them had an “Adnams” sign outside. Burnham wasn’t too busy even at 11 o’clock on a Saturday morning, mainly because Burnham is the end of the line as far as the road goes. There are a number of shops, a small Tesco Express (of course – they’re everywhere), a surprising number of female therapy and beautification shops.

Gladys announced that we’d arrived, and indeed, in the gap between two houses, there was the “Silver Road Camp Site” sign. But the gap was very narrow, with a white metal gate across. This couldn’t be the entrance, so we stopped blocking the road, and drove around the block. There was no other entrance, so on the next circuit, we drove into the entrance, and stopped by the gate.

No sooner had we done that, than two people on cycles wanted to get past. They seemed to be in a hurry, but we couldn’t go anywhere, and I was trying to find someone to see who could let us in. Another camper appeared, told us to ring the bell, and did it himself, before noticing that the campsite lady was walking down the field, leading another motorhome. She didn’t have a red flag, but she looked as though she might.

Meanwhile, behind us, the two cyclists seemed to be getting frustrated. I told them I’d open the gate, and go inside so they could pass, but clearly this was going to take far too long, and the male cyclist pushed past on the passenger side of the van. The female member knew this was going to be a no-go as far as she was concerned, so decided to squeeze herself and her bike between the driver’s side of the van and a large, prickly thirn bush of some kind. By this time, the gates were open, and I was ready to drive through, except there was a middle-aged lady blocking my path back to the driver’s door. There was nothing I could do but wait until she’d scratched herself sufficiently, and I could drive through, thus creating a huge space through which cycles, motorhomes and Chieftain Tanks could drive through.

The lady returned, and we ‘settled up’ (£11.50 for one night), before she guided us down the well-made track into the depths of the site. She said that we’d sleep well, because people found the air “very soporific”. I think that’s the first time anyone on a campsite has used the word ‘soporific’.

We crept along the camp site track, and I parked where she told me to. She wasn’t being officious, but she was trying to find a flat area for the van. As it happened, the place we parked wasn’t level, but my expertise with the levelling ramps came to the fore again.

Hooked up, kettle on, and we decided what to do. We hadn’t had chance to get the paper, so we decided to walk into town. It’s a lovely village. Far too many health and beauty shops for my liking, but then they’re not for me. We got the newspaper and some humous from the Tesco Express, and Annie insisted that we stop at the Adnams pub. The things I do, eh? Two pints of Broadside later, and I was ready for a kip. But Annie had other ideas, and after lunch, we went on a stroll, trekking poles in hand.

Trekking poles – what’s that all about? They’re walking sticks, aren’t they? Ours are shock resistant, and all sorts of other stuff. A fiver each from Shepton Mallet. Mind you, they were good climbing down the riverbank on the Crouch on Saturday.

Anyway, we walked along the river bank, and we watched a dinghy race for a while. We spoke with a chap who was avidly watching ‘his boy’ in fourth place. It seemed like just too much hard work for us. We followed the path on the OS map, and walked back through a farm which was being very careful about the environmental impact of their farming, and planting borders specifically to encourage insects, birds and other wildlife.

They also had a CL on their site, which might be useful in the future.

Back to the campsite, and it was time to watch the football – England v. Macedonia. Out came the telly. Switch on. Got a strange menu. I’d never seen it before. How peculiar! Selected something different, and got AV and then the usual program search menu. Searched for channels, got a grand total of 3 TV channels, which had extremely poor reception. Loads of pixilation, frozen pictures, no audio. Tried a couple of time, waggled the aerial lead, but it was still poor. Almost gave up, as we had it on the radio anyway, when I remembered the funny menu. Managed to get it back, found BBC1, and it was obviously using the analog tuner. The picture was poor, full of grey snow all over the screen, but it was a picture, and we had the audio commentary as well.

And later on we had Strictly Come Dancing too, although I probably shouldn’t mention that!

The morning was chilly, but not unpleasantly so. The showers were worth probably 5 – a bit dated, although they worked OK. After breakfast, we walked back to the river, but turned west, looking at the harbour and marina. It’s a very pleasant area, and there’s some great riverside properties.

One riverside café had a small patio area, with around a dozen bistro tables. We treated ourselves to a cream tea – a little early in the day, but it was very much appreciated. We strolled back to the van, and decided to make an early start back.

Whitstable - 15th / 17th Sept 2006

Another Friday, and another quick getaway from work. We were pushing through the crowds at 3.32pm, we ducked out onto the main road, and we were on our way. As usual, Gladys on the TomTom was a bit shocked to be turned on and thrust into service, especially as she was moved since she was last turned on. It takes ages for her to find the satellites, and work out where she is. Maybe I should try talking to her more gently in future?

Out along the A13, and onto the M25 which was already queuing for the Dartford bridge crossing, but we listened to the radio as we crawled up one side of the bridge, and then down the other. Through the toll booths, through the nasty roadworks around the A2 junction, and we were on a fast-moving road at last, heading for Kent.

Gladys delivered us to the postcode, which amazingly was 10 metres from the end of the farm track leading to the CL at Emmingham Farm. The track was, well, a track, and a rough one at that, and we crawled along in 1st gear. No sign of anyone at the farmhouse, but someone who was feeding a horse pointed us around the corner to a big open field with one caravan on it. We had arrived.

We spent a quiet evening, only disturbed by one of the old farm dogs sniffing around to see if we had any food.

Saturday morning, and it was time to explore. I got the bikes down off the rack, and we cycled towards town. Yet another horse feeder told us to “turn left, turn right, and turn left.” We followed the directions, and the main road up a very steep hill, both of us having to get off and walk for a bit, over the dual carriageway, and into the town. We cycled to the harbour, and ‘moored’ our bikes outside the RNLI shop. The fish market was enticing, but we decided to wait until later, so we didn’t have to carry fresh fish around the town with us.

We walked through the town, and we could see the attraction of the place. Some of the shops were very quaint, and we were tempted by some lovely decorated plates and bowls, but we resisted. We bought the newspaper, wandered around the shops a bit more, and headed for the beach. The only problem that we could see with Whitstable, the town, was the amount of traffic pouring through it. Granted, there is a section of one-way road, but most is normal two-way, and dangerous. Granted, it was Saturday morning, and Mr.and Mrs. Kent were going to the shops or the tattoo parlour, but we still had to watch our step. Cars, bicycles, buses and lorries all squeezed past us poor pedestrians.

We made it to the beach okay, though.

We are spoilt. Having had a place in Walton on the Naze means that we are used to a very sandy beach. And plenty of it. At Whitstable, it’s a pebbly / stony beach, which is fine if that’s what you’re used to. When I was a kid, we went to Minehead a couple of times. Stones, pebbles, and big boulders. Whatever the destination, we (okay, I) always got excited when we were nearing our destination.

Early memories were of guest houses, and one where we sent back a particularly undercooked chicken. It came back a few minutes later, still inedible, having been dunked in some hot fat for a little while.

Then another memory is of sitting in the front of a static caravan, watching the rain lash down through the big panoramic windows, and desperately looking for a break in the clouds. We would sit either side of a flimsy, wobbly table, playing cards, or maybe reading. We might have even had a radio, although I doubt it.

The best holidays were when we visited a place called Ladram Bay, in Devon. Recently panned as a touring motorhome destination (it’s a holiday village at the end of a long, winding lane – there’s not much else there). It was sandy, and it was always hot, and I used to spend hours floating around in a huge rubber ring (lorry inner tube), sculling my way back and forth, thinking I looked cool to the chicks. Nothing’s changed, except I don’t have the inner tube any more. Or maybe it’s built in to my body, to save on luggage space.

So, Whitstable has a stony beach, and a thriving sailing school and harbour, and lots of fishing seems to go on there. We walked along the footpath at the back of the stony beach, and I must admit, looking at the beach front houses was interesting. From chic, to rustic, to plain run down, it was interesting. And there was a pub!

The Neptune pub is right on the beach, as in - right on the beach. There is beach in front, and there is beach behind. It’s very original, with warped floorboards and a distinctly ‘fishy’ smell. We ordered drinks, and were served them in plastic glasses. It turns out if we had said we were staying inside, we could have been afforded the luxury of glass glasses. However, we sat on one of the picnic benches facing the sea, and read the newspaper, and chilled. It was very nice.

Soon enough, it was time to move on. We walked back to the harbour, landed ourselves a bag full of kippers, which we securely wrapped and put in our rucksack, and we cycled up the big big steep hill, cycled fast down the other side, missed our turning, stopped further on when it became obvious something was amiss, cycled back to the missed turning, and returned to the van.

The kippers smelt – they have a nice, fishy smell when you’re cooking them, but a nasty, fishy smell several hours later when you wish you’d bought a small barbecue and done them outside the van instead of on the cooker. It was a lovely meal, though.

Sunday, and we left at about 9.00am, left the money and a note inside the farm conservatory (since there was no one but farm dogs and horse feeders around), and skidaddled back to civilisation. Only we got stuck in the roadworks on the M2 / M25 junction, and waited ages. Got home at around 11.30am.

And I washed the van! And emptied everything that needed emptying, and filled up whatever needed filling. All in all, a nice weekend. I don’t think we’ll go back, though.

Shepton Mallet - 8th / 10th September 2006

For the first time, we took the van to work on Friday, in order to get a quick start to the weekend. I didn’t know how quick a start Annie had in mind, as we pushed our way through schoolchildren crossing the car park. “Go on,” said Annie. “Away you go.” The fact that there was a pram with several tiny tots either in it or hanging off it wasn’t going to delay the start of her weekend.

The Dartford River Crossing was slow, as usual on a Friday teatime. The M25 was .. well, pretty much like it always is. It used to be called “The Largest Car Park in the World,” back in the days when a 10 mile tailback had an amusing aspect to it. Nowadays, the M25 is something you need to have disappearing behind you from your back window.

We took the M3 after stop-start-stopping for an hour, and then stopped again at the services to take on board some diesel. Not long afterwards, we left the M3 and pointed the van east, along the A303. It’s quite a nice road, being mainly fast dual carriageway for quite a few miles. The problem occurred when we were approaching Stonehenge, apparently. The road goes from mainly fast dual carriageway to something approaching a rural single carriageway, only slower. A two-lane queue up a steep hill was caused by said two lanes becoming one. We waited ages in that queue, and we were only barely able to hang on to our minds by listening to some audio book short stories, on the TomTom via a piece of wire into the new stereo. And “The News Quiz” on Radio 4.

On and on we drove, and the audiobook was worryingly about a guy driving a BMW down a deserted motorway, and he kept ending up at the same service station. I did begin to wonder whether the TomTom, being the source of the story, might have its navigation system infected by said story.

At around 8.15, we arrived at the <>. We had been unable to book our place in the Motorhome Facts rally pitch, because it had already been filled up by the time we had decided to come to the show. We had resolved to park in the general camping area, but as we arrived at the gate, I had a change of mind.

“Motorhome Facts?” I asked. Obviously, within those two words was the implicit question “do you happen to know whether the Motorhome Facts rally pitch has been filled up yet, or would there possible be a small place for us on it?” the guy on the gate obviously knew the MHF pitch, and its status, because he directed us to: “turn right here, go straight up, …” and that was the last I heard, As in, actually listened to. At the time, I was taking it all in, and moved forward and turned right as I’d been instructed. And then? Who knows? “I think there may have been something about going through a hedge,” I said, so we headed for a hedge.

There was clearly nothing on the other side, so we turned round, and went a different way. We twisted and turned, and although being at the top of the campsite, we had no idea where we were going. And it was turning from dusk into dark very quickly.

We hailed a passing couple, who had no idea where the Motorhome Facts pitch was, but asked “have you looked at the map?” I turned to Annie. She looked at me. The couple said: “it’s in the information pack they gave you on the gate. Annie sorted through, and found the map. We passed it across, and our guides looked at it, and: “yes, there you are,” and pointed to a rectangle on the paper, whose writing was far too small for me to read, but I was reliably informed it said Motorhome Facts.

We thanked them profusely, and they passed the map back, and turned to go. I had a sudden thought. “Err … I’m sorry, but where are we now?” They smiled, traced our location on the map, and we turned round.

Heading back down the hill, it really was getting dark, and I was thinking of giving up and finding a piece of grass to park on, when I noticed a yellow pennant flying, and a small wooden sign. We had arrived!

I jumped out, and asked for Jacquie. She appeared with clipboard. I told her who we were, and as she checked down the list, I admitted: “we haven’t booked. It was full before we’d decided to come. Can you squeeze us in?” Jacquie looked down the list, told us she was one van down anyway, although they might come tomorrow, which could mean we’d have to move. But we were in. Thanks, Jacquie.

We parked up, and as usual in front of other motorhomers, I hade a hash of the levelling ramps. During our two weeks in France, I became an expert. Although I used the tiny level Annie had bought me for a present, I could pretty well tell how we were lying. I’d put the ramps down, sometimes offset front to back to allow for a sideways lean, a quick forward, a quick reverse, bump, and we were there. At Sheptom Mallet, I could feel pairs of eyes watching me from behind blinds and curtains. I got the level out just in case, but I could see we were pretty much level side-to-side, but nose down on the slight hill.

No problem. We’d go forwards onto the ramps, nicely aligned with each other, I reckoned about a third of the way up, and we’d be right. Ramps were nonchalantly dropped and nudged into place with my foot – a particularly suave action, which I thought would get the watching audience nodding silently in appreciation. Start engine, back a little, brum, brum, and up she goes.

Something didn’t feel right. I got out, and looked at the ramps. One front wheel was half off the side of the ramp, which as a result had dug into the soft earth, meaning that we were tilted. I was crestfallen. This had never happened before! Honest!

Fortunately, I’d left the engine running, so I didn’t draw too much attention when I backed off the ramps again, and jumped out to line them up again. All thoughts of my debonair style were cast away, as I knelt down, and had to pull the corner of the ramp out of the ground. In rea;ity, I should have moved the van sideways a little, to find fresh ground, but I was afraid that my inexperienced juggling would draw crowds from other camping fields, as word would no doubt quickly spread of this eejit on the MHF site who couldn’t even park his van properly.

I decided to risk it, carefully placing the ramp dead-centre of the tyre, carefully lined it up, and jumped in the cab for another go. Of course, what I’d forgotten is that I’d backed off both ramps, so now I was some foot or so behind the nearside ramp, and on the plastic off the offside ramp. Even as I type this now, I can hear the sniggers of people around me at the time, fully realising what was going to happen. “Is everything all right?” Annie asked. “Yeah, fine, just need to level it up a bit.” “It feels level enough to me.”

This last comment is one rarely heard in our household. We both know that I have a good eye for levels – pictures on the walls, cupboards, just about anything. And so it is with a motorhome. But for me, there is irritation when something like that isn’t right. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be right. Annie is more accepting of a status quo, that near enough is good enough if it means we don’t spend ages fiddling about with lumps of yellow plastic under the wheels, and we can get on with the evening. But for me, a couple of minutes spent getting it right is well worth it.

So forward we went, and I felt the offside ramp bump, but no nearside. Surely I can ‘t have completely missed it? This was turning into a complete disaster (Note: my definition of a disaster may be somewhat lower than many others. But believe me, to me, this was a disaster of epic proportions).

“It seems worse now,” said Annie, although I pretended not to hear her over the rattle of the engine. I jumped out, and immediately realised what had gone wrong. Should I leave it like it was? I thought about it for a second, but quickly realised that rectifying the obvious sideways lilt couldn’t be done until people around me were up in the morning, but experience had shown me that sometimes, this wasn’t until after 10am, or even later. By which time, everyone in the area would have walked past and noticed a slantily-parked van, bringing down the formerly fine collection of vehicles in the MHF parking lot.

Quickly, I jumped back behind the wheel (leaving the door open lest I attract too much attention), took off the handbrake to let the van slide slowly down the ramp (singular), jumped back down AGAIN, lined up the nearside ramp, back into the cab, back up a bit, and then brum, brum, bump.

Engine off.

It wasn’t perfect, but I’m afraid it would have to do (I can’t believe I even thought that, never mind admitting to it in print). The silence which descended upon the field was disturbed only by the “swish” and “rustle” of curtains and blinds being put back into place. Glad to be of entertainment, you voyeurs! Although, to be fair, were I to be in their place, I’d probably have been standing around with a bottle of beer in my hand, offering helpful advice like: “it’s not level, you know,” and “surely you’re not going to leave it like that?”

Annie started swishing curtains of her own, and announced: “come on, there’s a bar open until midnight.” And so we made up the bed, locked the door, and went in search of entertainment.

We found it, in the form of a huge barn-like building, the other side of the showground. A busker had got lost on the underground, and had found himself in, of all places, Shepton Mellet. We looked on as he sang snatched of sixties songs from Manfred Mann, and seventies songs from band like The Sweet and Slade. To be fair, he was … well, fair. The megawatt backing tracks were a tad more musical than he, and the whole ensemble looked and sounded more like karaoke night down the local than entertainment for an international show.

We queued up at the mobile bar for some drinks, Annie unsure whether to have a large gin and tonic or a cider. She opted for cider when she heard someone else being told there was no ice nor lemon. For me, I was tempted as always by the lure of the Guinness, but recurring flashbacks always caused me anguish whenever I see a Guinness tap. I won't go into it now, but it involved a good idea, some "export Guinness", and the good idea turning out to be a bad idea.

At Shepton Mallet, I had lager. The Guinness looked lovely, but I still had the lager.

Annie went searching for a table, and in true Annie style, asked this old guy, who was sitting on his own with two chairs leaning against his table, if we could have the chairs. Frankie told us that he was here with two friends, and they’d gone to make a phone call, but that was an hour ago. We took the chairs, and joined him at his table.

The pub singer embarked on this dreary Irish ballad-type thing, which went on and on, and although he looked very earnest, we kinda switched off, and spoke to Franklin (known as Frankie). We had a lovely evening, and Frankie was great company. I bought him a beer. He was drinking Guinness, and I envied him. I stuck to my lager. He told us of his life, having lost his wife a few years before, and how he loved getting away in his little camper van. We learnt of his children, his business life. We ignored the balladeer, who was still droning on.

A flashy young lady came on the stage next, when Donald O’Connor, or whoever he was, finally finished his masterpiece. She had a bash at “Big Spender”, although her lower notes were a bit of a struggle. She was better, good in fact, when she sang the theme from “Titanic”, belting out the song with considerable gusto.

After her there was a comedian, who was okay, although not as good as everyone else thought. After several pints, it was time to say goodnight, and we left Franklin to finish his beer, and we headed back to the van, thoroughly relaxed.

Saturday 9th September 2006

We were awake early, as usual, and 9 o’clock saw us marching into the show area to see what was what. First stall open was outdoor clothing, and Annie bought some stuff, and I bought some stuff. Then we wandered. We looked in vans which were too expensive for us, and found fault with most of them. There was one where you had to climb over the toilet to get to the shower – there was no room to slide past. This was a source of great credulity, especially to the women who, it must be said, are slightly more fastidious in the toilet department than most of us blokes. People walking past were dragged in to be shocked at the design, and they in turn invited others.

We saw only one which tickled our fancy, which was an Adria. We couldn’t afford that either, but I took pictures of it anyway. Maybe if I printed off the pictures, put them on the wall, maybe in a little dream bubble, then we might find a way sometime in the future. At least, we could get to the shower in that one.

We bought a paper from the excellent on-site shop, as well as sweet, sticky pastries. There was a load of stuff available, and it was doing very good business.

We bought more stuff. On recommendation, we had Cornish pasties for lunch, which were beautiful. We bought a thing runner carpet for the centre of the van. I bought an awning hold-down strap, with which I was delighted. We didn’t buy the comfy chairs, although Annie did her best to persuade me. The half-price ones from Tesco would suffice until something went wrong with them. We ogled at the Rvs – in fact, we ogled at the prices more. They looked beautiful, although unaccompanied visits were forbidden. We didn’t look round them. We only had two days, after all. We bought an external screen for the cab windows. Expensive, but it’s what we wanted, and surprisingly, the only thing on the list of “the only things we’re going to buy at the show” which we’d actually bought.

We had a chat to a few other people in the MHF area, especially Spacerunner whose clear-panelled windbreak had Annie slavering.

After a hard day’s shopping, we went back to the van, opened the beer and wine, and read the paper. We were just failing in our attempt to answer The Guardian Saturday quiz, when Phil, who we’d met on the full-timers’ meet, passed by. We said hello, Annie said give him a beer, and he stayed for a while. Then Jan came over, and they both stayed for a while.

Then it got cold.

Maybe not exactly cold, but there was certainly a little nip in the air, so Phil said: “do you want to come over to our van? We’ve got the heating on.” I turned to Annie, but she was already out of her seat, grabbing the wine bottle. I guessed the answer was “yes, please.”

We had a lovely evening with Phil and Jan, and they were talking about their plans for the future – winter in the south of Europe, and then back in the spring to take up positions as Caravan Club assistant wardens. The fireworks started, and we ventured outside to watch them. Eventually, Annie got tired, and we left to return to our van.

Sunday 10th September 2006

Up not quite so early today, but an early morning stroll to buy more stuff (a fleece for ‘er to stay in the van) and a discussion ensued about smaller vans. The rest of the morning, we wandered round campervans, had a nice chat with a chap from Timberland, and poked our heads in an iH van. All very fascinating, and shows how much you can get into a fairly small space without it feeling overcrowded.

Oh, and we bought an awning with clear panels in it. Not as fancy as Spacerunner’s, but time will tell how substantial it is in some actual wind.

At around lunchtime, we decided to depart. Most of the rest of the MHF-ers were still wandering around the show, and we snuck off down the hill.

The journey home was fairly uneventful, except for when we passed this field, with a bunch of people looking at some rocks. “Blimey!” I said (or something like) – “that’s Stonehenge.” I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but whatever it was, I was thinking of something a bit more substantial that the scattering of boulders that I cruised past. Not terribly impressed. Annie said that they must be bigger close up. So’s a lot of things, but I fear we’ll never find out about Stonehenge. Not on our list of ‘must-sees’.

France trip blog now live

The France trip blog is now live at:

FRANCE 2006

The Shepton Mallet show report is nearly done, and the Whitstable weekend is awaiting photos. More updates soon.

The France 2006 trip has been entered into its own blog, and the posting order reversed, so it reads correctly top-down, start-finish. I'm just in the process of adding some pictures - done two days' worth, and I hope to get to the others soon.