Sun, Saddles and a Very Spoilt Cat

The rest of our stay passed in a blur of bike rides, tea stops, and an alarming amount of time spent catering to a small, furry dictator named Oscar.

Oscar, for his part, has taken to caravanning like he’s been secretly doing it behind our backs for years. Honestly, if he could talk, I’m fairly sure he’d be saying, “What took you so long?” He’s completely settled, so much so that we’re starting to wonder if we’re going to be allowed back home with him.

Naturally, he’s brought his routines with him. The main one being, Every time a human walks through the door, I receive a treat. Now, this works perfectly well in a house where door usage is fairly limited. In a caravan? Where you pop in and out roughly 47 times an hour? Less than ideal.

We’ve tried to manage this by swapping some treats for his regular kibble. He hasn’t noticed. We, however, feel like criminal masterminds.

Steve built him a little pen (basically Oscar’s luxury penthouse suite), complete with a shelf where he can sit and silently judge passersby. He’s perfectly happy in there for hours, watching the world go by like a retired gentleman with strong opinions about the neighbourhood.

Then came the real test, the harness.

I was fully prepared for Oscar to react as though we’d personally betrayed him. Instead, he just… accepted it. No drama. No theatrics. Just a casual stroll around the van, having a sniff, as if to say, “Yes, this will do.” Who is this cat?

He’s become so relaxed that we’ve even started leaving him alone for longer stretches. We shut the blinds, crack open the skylights and windows, and leave the bathroom window at prime “nosy position.” We return expecting a dramatic reunion… and get a vague head lift, a stretch, and then of course, an immediate demand for treats. Because we walked through the door. And rules are rules.

We also managed to tear ourselves away from Oscar’s demanding schedule to cycle into Burley. Turns out we picked the perfect time of year, busy enough for atmosphere, quiet enough that you’re not elbowing people out of the way for a cream tea.

I found a delightful hippy shop called The Old Shed, which smelled exactly like my youth, sandalwood, patchouli. Inside were racks of clothes I absolutely loved… all seemingly designed for people built like elegant giraffes. At five foot tall no matter how much I like an item, it wasn’t going to fit, so that saved me a fortune.

Unfortunately, I then spotted the bags. Retro. Nostalgic. Irresistible. A few pounds featuring His Majesty’s face later, and I was the proud owner of something I absolutely didn’t need.

Another day, another cycle, this time to Holmsley Tea Room. The off-road route got the legs working, a pot of tea and a bacon sandwich got me saddle ready for the ride back. Highly recommend the ride to the tearooms mainly for the sandwich, but also for the sense of achievement as I haven’t ridden properly since last summer.

On the return journey, we stopped to photograph some New Forest ponies. One of them wandered straight over, clearly fascinated by our tandem. It gave it a proper inspection, it obviously had never seen a tandem before and I’m still not convinced it approved.

Afternoons were blissfully predictable post rides, back to the site, sun on our faces, birds singing, and the occasional soundtrack of someone aggressively deploying a hammer drill while attempting to lower their caravan legs. Ah, the sounds of nature.

All in all, it’s been a cracking eight days. Returning to the New Forest felt like coming home, unsurprising, really, since it actually was home for us a few years ago. It was lovely catching up with old colleagues and revisiting the site where we first worked for the club.

Do we miss the job? I miss it a tiny bit… in a selective, rose-tinted, memory-filtered sort of way. The lifestyle, though, that I definitely miss. Steve, on the other hand, wouldn’t go back if you paid him. Not even for unlimited bacon sandwiches.

And now it’s time to pack up, head home, and immediately start planning the next trip, because clearly, we haven’t quite finished being bossed around by a cat in a caravan.