So, discoveries:
1. Driving
BWB can be fun, you just need to be attentive, or in 'life-coach' speak, mindful; the bike rack, 24 feet behind you is not always quite where you think it's going to be, especially when turning sharp left. Equally disconcerting is the way traffic following you simply disappear into a blind spot. I thought that I could use the reversing camera like a rear view mirror, but even on 'long view' cars need to be right up your proverbial before they make an on-screen appearance. Soon though you begin to learn a few tricks, always checking the wing mirrors when you corner, often the Eddie Stobart monster truck just out out sight makes a fleeting appearance; in sunny weather you can sometimes see the shadow of an invisible vehicle skittering along a hedgerow or railings. So all those things I learned about defensive driving on the naughty driver course I had to go on five years ago suddenly become really useful. It's true, driving BWB is not so scary as I'd feared.
2. Technical Stuff
I can proudly announce I have prepared, used AND emptied the Thetford toilet and I did not need to wash my feet afterwards! How I acquired this skill does have a slight 'new millennium' feel to it. Finding the written instructions incomprehensible, I downloaded the video below from Thetford Australia's site onto my Nexus 7 tablet and followed the guidance when we got to the campsite, ah the wonders of technology!
As a recently retired teacher of that most maligned of subjects, Media Studies, I quite admired this little instructional video which managed to communicate the essential facts whilst achieving a nice balance between delicacy and humour; I think Mr Simmond's deadpan delivery in broad Yahwksheer helped here. Not so sure about the 'motivational' music in the background, maybe that was put in to appeal to people watching who suffer from constipation.
Over the two days we camped at Delamere we managed to get our heads around most of the 'habitation' systems, other than the blown air heating as the temperature hardly dropped below 25 degrees.
3. Why I gave up camping in Britain.
Since the early Eighties we've probably camped in the UK less than half a dozen times. I've always maintained that this was the result of a week in Mid-Wales during the summer of 1985 where the weather deteriorated from 'mixed' to 'unsettled' then developed monsoon characteristics. Baling out our flooded little ridge tent after a cold, uncomfortable night I probably said, 'never again' and for once meant it. The upside of this is that over the past two decades we've travelled at every opportunity as a family across Southern Europe and the Mediterranean, seen wonderful places and done lots of fun things. The downside to this is that our children don't really know and appreciate the landscape of England to the same extent as me and Gill, who cycle-camped here extensively during the 1970's.
I decided, however, after merely two hours in the Delamere Forest campsite that British weather was not the only, or indeed the primary reason why we headed for years to the Med. Yes, you've guessed it, the real real reason for scooting off towards the continent is to escape the idiosyncrasies of the British camper. Of course there were quite a few boring, mild-mannered and generally innocuous people on the campsite, but I swear they were out-numbered by the odd, the needlessly aggressive and generally obnoxious.
Nowhere in England can you escape the malign influence of the class system, supermarkets, newspapers, the house-market, televisions, food, fashion - everything is subtly 'socially differentiated' as sociologists say. This particular form of low-key tribal warfare could be seen by simply observing the antics of people on the pitches surrounding us.
White van man, plus his brother, their spouses, kids, buggies, dogs, gazebos, inflatable armchairs, corralled in a clutch of budget hoop tents to the left; uptight retireds in ageing, but well loved, bungaloid, motorhome opposite; well, it was never going to be harmonious was it? Not that the Whitevanman tribe got up to any shenanigans, they were just enjoying themselves, lots of banter and laughter among the adults, their kids dodging about soaking each other with super-gun sized water pistols, and spoiled to death pooches, hyperactive and yapping ecstatically.
This really narked Mr and Mrs Greyhair. As they occupied a corner pitch people heading for the shower block tended to cut across right in front of them. Every time this happened Mr Greyhair grumbled loudly about having paid for his pitch and people were 'using it like a runway' (an odd observation as I did not see anyone, not even the camp's most feral seven year olds, swooping past the grumpies with arms outstretched going, neeeyaaaaah' - like Peter Kay on speed). When public grumbling failed to have any effect, the injured party now took to directly pointing out his concerns to the errant trespassers. No altercation actually resulted from this, but when he tried his more direct approach on a stocky chap sporting a shaved head and acres of tattoos the atmosphere did edge towards the menacing. Following the abject failure of both initial strategies, Mr Greyhair removed a large stripey wind-break at least fifteen feet in length, from his van and, mallet in hand, angrily erected a barrier right across the back of his pitch. 'It's funny how the English come together to assert their separateness,' I commented to Gill, dubbing the newly erected barrier, 'The Nylon Curtain'.
 |
| Pleasing abstract pattern in the wing mirror, The Nylon Curtain in the background. |
Aside from amusing outbreaks of class skirmishing, as individuals campers can be tiresome too. What is it about campsites that encourages people to make fatuous comments of a semi-personal nature? First example: I decided to take a few bits of washing up with me in a plastic box when I went to the shower block for a shave. A simple act, do the washing up at the sinks designated for the purpose then carry the said items to the toilet block, shave and return to van, normal behaviour surely. Three people decided to be helpful. An elderly chap exiting a shower piped up, 'I hope your not going to wash up in here, son, there's a place for that' (minor irritation level 1). As I left the shower block I was greeted twice; first immediately as I stepped out of the door by a slightly cocky guy who laughed in a jokey way, 'Can't find the washing up place mate?' (hilarious mate, irritation level notches up to yellow). Seconds later, some woman, possibly shower-man's wife, repeated the advice about not washing dishes in a shower block (irritation red alert - brief steam whiff from ears). Is it me, am I over sensitive?
While some unsolicited comments are annoying, others are plain baffling. Example two: evening falls, Gill and I relax beside BWB, each of us lost in our Kindles, Mark Twain for me, Bill Bryson for Gill, suitable bedtime reading for wannabe travellers. A fellow camper wanders by, an aged Daily Male propped up on a walking stick. 'Don't work too hard,' he shouts across to us. I am left pondering what he means. Does he find the fact that we are sitting down and relaxing mildly irritating? Surely not, half the campsite is chilling out. More bizarrely I wonder if the fact that we are both reading has irked him, perhaps he regards reading as 'hard work'. Even if this were the case, then why distract us, what gives him the right to comment? Is it me, am I over sensitive?
 |
| Gill subverting campsite norms with her Kindle. |
Example three: We have decided that there is little point using the van's 'on-board' facilities if the campsite provides more comfortable ones on-site. Hence, mid-morning finds me enthroned in the toilet block thinking abstruse thoughts. I hear a kerfuffle at the entrance and a pompous voice announces,
'Gentleman, as we are now entering the campsite cleansing period, please vacate the facilities as quickly as you can'.
I am amazed at how compliant my fellow ablutionaries prove to be, sounds of electric razors switching off, showers trickling to a halt, cubicle doors closing, each accompanied by an encouraging, 'And thank you sir,' from the block Gruppenfuhrer. However, a man's got to do what a man has to do, and it was some minutes before I exited myself, soliciting no thanks whatsoever. I did check on the UN website to see if my Human Rights had been violated but due to some drafting oversight there seemed to be no clause relating specifically to being hoicked off the bog prematurely by some quasi-fascist twerp. I did wonder though if it constituted a minor violation of Article 5 which refers to 'cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment' Is it me, or am I oversensitive?
4. Why I should not have given up camping in Britain
It's official, the Met Office announced a heatwave this morning. Immediately the tabloids are predicting a mass extinction of the elderly, an urgent need to share bath water with distant relatives and the Ministry of Health advised 'the vunerable' (whoever they are) to stay indoors between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00pm. As the mercury hovers around 27 celsius our national urge to panic must be regarded somewhat wryly by the citizens of Tokyo, Sidney, Los Angeles or even Nice, who would regard our weather as an airy, pleasant Summer's day.
Too busy making a national crisis out of a spell of fine weather, nobody ever mentions just how green, lovely and winsome the English countryside looks under clear blue skies and bright sunshine. Too often people spend most of their life in an asphalt corridor, struggling down traffic choked roads to work in office complexes or rushing to buy stuff in retail parks, coming home to a 'new-build detatched with en-suite', then spending 'quality time' on Facebook. What is astonishing about England is that for all the litter strewn sprawl and shabbiness just a mile or two from anywhere there are empty sunlit fields, shadowy ancient woodlands and lonely footpaths where you rarely meet a soul. This weekend our trip to Delamere Forest, a scrap of woodland in North Cheshire, reminded us just how delightful our ordinary countryside can be. So, here's a few pictures of our first venture out with BWB. all grumpiness forgotten the moment you walk into a silent forest and watch sunlight filtering through the shimmering leaves.
 |
| Newly arrived - note electrical hook-up and levelling triumphs |
 |
| The essentials of middle-aged life - a beer, a BBQ and a smart phone that's incomprehensible... |
 |
| Evening view towards the Whitevanman encampment. |
 |
| Cheers! |
 |
later the same evening.... |
 |
| The footpaths into the forest lead off straight from the campsite. |
 |
| So next morning, off we trot, |
 |
| then sit down to admire: |
 |
| Jurassic Park style bracken, |
 |
| thistles franchised from Highland and Islands Development Board... |
 |
| and Kermit the Frog coloured fetid pools, |
 |
| Happiness is a Digital SLR and many a scene to point it at. |
 |
| The Forestry Commission thoughtfully provided an OS map near the visitor centre - we walked all around Blakemere Moss, maybe 3.5 miles, hardly a hike, but more than a stroll. |
 |
While experimenting with the macro setting on my camera, due to circumstances I still can't fully explain, I managed to suffer a nettle sting to the tip of my nose...ouch! |
 |
| The woodland elves have recently updated their transport arrangements. |
 |
Oddly enough the wetland area reminded me of the Daintree River in Northern Queensland. No surprise then that recent years have seen a marked increase in the sighting of Crocs at Delamere, indeed Gill has some bright blue ones....
|
 |
| Gill and the giant sandwich, an undiscovered classic by Mr Dahl? |
 |
| Well, it looks as if there might be crocodiles. |
 |
| The problem is, every path seems identical. |
 |
| Horse riding, don't get it, at least with a Segway there's no fiddling about with saddlery, no need for grooming, no vet's bills and they don't crap all over the place. |
 |
| People having fun up trees at 'Go Ape' |
 |
| Interestingly, stuck twenty feet up in a tree, humans begin to sound as well as act like monkeys, with much shrieking and whooping. |
 |
Tea and strawberries, a very English end to a very English day, well apart from the transatlantic influence of the bright blue Crocs, there's globalisation for you. |
 |
| Sunset over Blakemere Moss, 'One of Those Days in England'' like the mighty Mr Harper used to sing about |
So, back to my opening comments, we have discovered much, but, adjusting my spectacles in best Ofsted inspector mode, what have we achieved, what has been the impact. Well what we have achieved is the confidence to take BWB to Germany in 10 days time. There are a few minor glitches on the van itself - the shower tubing leaks, there's a drip from the grey water tank, the Fiamma awning needs attention and the fridge does not get cold enough when set to work on electricity, nothing a bit of cash won't fix.
But the real achievement of the weekend is our new family member has name - for reasons best known to herself, while sitting staring at the lake munching on a monster coronation chicken sandwich, Gill announced, 'I think we should call the van 'Maisie'. I'll go with that. Immediately I thought of the balsy female protagonist from the Daily Mirror's long running strip cartoon, 'The Perishers'.
So, (switching to mid Victorian travel log mode) our expeditionary party is fully assembled, Pete, Gill, nos trois grands enfants (when they want to tag along), Muriel the Satnav and Maisie the Motorhome - seven in all; maybe not always magnificent but pretty intrepid nonetheless. Let's find those 'roads less travelled' - Heels for Dust!
No comments:
Post a Comment