22 Jul 2013
Somehow, somewhere, they managed to see a real old fashioned gypsy caravan, wooden, painted and on big old fashioned wheels. Since that day they have been nagging me senseless to stay in one, and finally I found it.
To big-eyed pleading that it was surely the only thing they have ever loved EVER in their WHOLE LIVES, the caravan was booked for three days, and the waiting began. For the kids, counting down the days was unbearable. For me, it provided time to ponder what on earth I had just done.
You see, I don’t really do camping. Although I love the countryside, I don’t want to live in it quite that immediately. When I open my eyes first thing I do not wish to see a sheep’s arse. I wish to see a tray (preferably silver) carrying earl grey tea and breakfast in bed (with bubbly, without gluten). This tends to happen only in buildings made of brick, which also contain hot showers, hairdryers and a telephone via which my every whim can be accommodated without me so much as leaving the bed. I like to think this makes me bucolically challenged rather than high maintenance, but in the end I am shameless about needing a bit of luxury. I can’t see any sense in paying good money to stay somewhere considerably less comfortable than my own home.
I also have time to note that the caravan is tiny, and we are not. I booked it back in June – the coldest June in living memory, leading me to worry that if it rained all holiday, we would not be a band of wild gypsies living off the land. We would be three wet people in a hut. My final shudder came at discovering the toilet facilities. We had what is known as a thunderbox, which is basically a snazzy composting facility rather than a flushing loo. You do what is required, sprinkle it with sawdust and shut the lid. (I know it’s eco-friendly but trust me there’s a reason people don’t do this anymore. Just saying.)
So eventually we arrived, and despite my misgivings it was just beautiful. Yes the caravan was tiny, but it was also unbelievably cute and the kids literally screamed with delight. And there was another building with a hot shower and running water, so although the showers had to be quick they at least existed, as did a solar powered electricity point so I could stay in mobile phone contact with my amused husband. The sun shone, we cooked over an open fire, we played in the fields and yes, I did see and survive several sheep arses. And a donkey. At the end of three days I was drifting about barefoot with no makeup, wondering who on earth this gypsy woman was, listening to pleas that we do this every year.
Back in London I have had a proper shower, booked a pedicure, and had my hair done. Living in a field is all very well but after three days am I really ready to give up being a princess, and all of life’s little luxuries? To do this every year?
