Home away from home?

In the previous post, I commented that the Plymouth Caravan Centre had claimed it have everything I needed.

I failed wholeheartedly to accentuate the fact that I very much doubt it does, and should therefore be had under the trades description act.

I am having a wild stab in the dark here, but I'm guessing the Plymouth Caravan Centre does a healthy trade in, above all other things, caravans. Sure, it probably sells miniature kettles (which are wasted on hefty tea drinkers such as myself), camping stoves and those clever all-in-one knife/fork/spoon contraptions and seemingly pointless vacuum packed food bags (for me anyway, I rarely walk too far away from a pub that serves substantial quantities of home baked food, its usually one of the criteria for a chosen jaunt). But, unless once again I can drag them to the small claims court, they probably have a variety of those Two-Wheeled-Terrors.

I know several of my friends families who own caravans and who have spent many a happy holiday heading coast-wards. I myself have spent a fair few memorable weeks in stationary caravans littered along the Cornish and Devon coastlines. Once they are still, I find them inoffensive. I even quite like the often ingenious way that they manage to turn a table effortlessly into a bed, cooker or toilet at a moment's notice (and cushion-removing). And the storage space; hidden within seats, in overhead compartments, under beds. Quite remarkable. (The Lego lover in me has always had a love of mini-things).

Everything you could ever need in the space of a few compact, claustrophobic metres, reeking of intensity and oppressive 'quality' time, customised to perfection for a week or so's worth of scrabble-playing while the rain batters down against the net-curtained windows (some of the posh ones even have a pelmet, but I've only had the fortune to glimpse at these in magazines, and yes, a multitude of reading material on this subject exist, if you care to browse in awe).

A hint of sarcasm may have drifted into my monologue, for which I should apologise and recover my original sincerity in reminiscing about such holidays. I have some wonderful memories; they were a world of exploration for a little girl, exhausting every nook and cranny in a bid to discover all the hidden extras. And the game-playing (it forever rains in Cornwall, so you've got to be prepared for some serious family 'bonding' over a tiddly-wink or two).

But, as someone who is forced to flock alongside the tourists when I head home from wherever I happen to be living in the country (Bradford; Hackney; you can see why I invested in a car), frustratedly watching the clock tick furiously, desperate grasp every moment of a bank holiday, caravans are the no less than the devil incarnate.

While I should remember never to bite the hands that feed and tourists should be welcomed with open arms to Cornwall - I should be standing there holding out some tasty treats, armed with a tupperware of melting moments and a flask of tea for their arrival across the Tamar – and am all too aware of how we as a county thrive on the good nature of those who would rather spend many a hapless hour in uncomfortable traffic jams on the M5 to reach their destination which will no doubt be eclipsed by driving rain and bring a whole new meaning to the words 'wind-swept', rather than being whisked off by a low-cost airline to somewhere guaranteed to produce lobster-perfect tans within minutes, if they could just leave their kitchen sink where it belongs – at home – and hire one once they reached their destination, I'd be the Hostess with the Mostess.
Why am I so enraged by these miniature homes on wheels?

I have seen gargantuan caravans towed by Fiestas, unnervingly weaving and swaying across their lane.

I have regularly seen caravan after caravan turned over on the dual carriage way, their owners standing at the side looking bewildered and confused as to what caused this calamity (try: snaking due to the driver being completely oblivious to the concept that having a caravan clamped to the back of their car means actually driving with the understanding and recognition of this fact). When I have been stuck in my car for several hours while the traffic is guided around such scenes of disaster, in a vehicle whose sophisticated air conditioning system involves opening the windows and waving a magazine vigorously in front of my face, I am not at my best and am not overly sympathetic with the caravanners.

I have been stuck behind a driver with oversized caravan in tow inching past a lorry, up a hill, on a failed mission to attempt some sort of vague overtaking manouvre.

I'm not adversed to the odd campervan. From VW to Winnebago, they don't particlarly offend me. I even have notions of owning one sometime (veering to the size of a VW, I can't imagine trying to parallel park anything bigger, although, being incredibly short, I'd like to entertain the notion of being up high). The drivers at least are aware of the cumbersome vehicle they are negotiating, even if it reaches a top speed of 50mph. As long as it stays in the slow lane, I don't mind.

I have managed to restrain my disapproval of moving caravans to quite an impressive degree in this post, and have managed, I think, to justify my dislike effectively.

But what I feel is anything but rational. There's blood boiling in my frustrated veins as I write. This is nothing short of hate.

These caravanners that I have encountered are probably the exception to the rule. As I mentioned, I have friends whose families have enjoyed caravanning for many years, and I am sure they are driven by perfectly competent and proficient drivers.

I am aware if I attempted to tow a caravan I would end up a very unhappy WebStress. I can just about manage a Rover 200. But I combat this inability by NOT towing a caravan. A simple, effective, foolproof plan.

I have a little advice to combat such accidents and aggression on the motorways, especially fitting for this Easter weekend. B&B's are fairly cheap these days and you get a cooked breakfast thrown in free. You don't need your kitchen sink, they'll provide one, and if you splash out you might even get those little complimentary miniature bottles of shower gel and shampoo. And you can leave the towels dirty.