After recent surgery on my tongue, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, I decided that rest and recuperation could only properly be achieved in one place, the caravan.
At home, my head is full of “stuff”. I’m constantly on the go, finding things that need doing, tidying things that don’t really need tidying and generally keeping myself busy.
At the van, though, something magical happens. There must be some sort of magic dust that falls from the caravan door when you walk through it because, within minutes, my head empties. All those tabs that are permanently open in my brain suddenly close, and I can relax.
Currently, I’m living on a diet of slop until my tongue is back to full working order. Soup, yoghurt and mashed potatoes are about as exciting as it gets, fortunately, they’re just as achievable in the caravan as they are at home.
A quick phone call to the Caravan and Motorhome Club and we were booked into Rookesbury Park, just under an hour from home. Close enough to the hospital should I need it, although a few days post-surgery, I was fairly confident I wouldn’t.
Two minutes into the drive to pick the caravan up, Oscar decided he had completely forgotten what the car was and how it worked.
Despite having his litter tray inches away, he promptly peed all over the newspaper I’d thoughtfully laid out for him. Anti-bacterial wipes at the ready, a quick stop at a bin and we were ready to go again.
At this point, Oscar apparently decided he remembered what being in the car meant. He lay down on the fresh newspaper, closed his eyes and slept for the rest of the journey. Typical cat.
We arrived on site and everything was quick and easy. We found ourselves a lovely sunny pitch with not too many neighbours and got Oscar decanted into the caravan where he found himself a sunny but shady spot, top half in the shade, bum in the sun and soon he was snoring.
We set up around him, trying not to disturb His Majesty’s slumber. Belongings were stuffed into cupboards, and within about 20 minutes we were sorted.
Luckily, I’d visited the van the day before, made the bed and filled the wardrobe, so there wasn’t much left to do.
Half an hour later he’s up wandering around inspecting everything, presumably making sure nothing had been moved in his absence, before flopping down in his “bum in the sun” spot to finish his snooze.
Kettle on, chairs out and I was sitting in the glorious September sunshine, waiting for my liquorice and peppermint tea to reach an acceptable tepid temperature for my poorly tongue.
This was more like it. Peace and quiet and absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to be.
Our first night on site was wonderfully restful. Bizarrely, there were no van-door-swoosh-bangers, no early morning aqua rollers and no barking dogs.
The lack of barking dogs was particularly strange because they were definitely there. They simply seemed to have saved their vocal talents for the rest of the day. I do wish they’d tell their owners to put them on a lead, too.
The next morning brought another exciting breakfast of yoghurt, followed by lunch consisting of a tin of Mr Rone. Yes, Mr Rone. I’ve called Minestrone “Mr Rone” for 58 years and I’m not about to start changing now.
Fed and watered, we headed out in search of the sea. Lee-on-the-Solent, not too far away and the sun was shining. Despite living only about 45 minutes away, we’d never actually visited Lee-on-the-Solent.
What a lovely surprise. The sea was sparkling in the sunshine as we walked along the front. The beach was almost empty, with just the odd person sitting on the pebbles, taking in the late-September sunshine and warm sea air. We walked the length of the prom before plonking ourselves down on the beach. We still had half an hour left on the car park, so obviously we had to use that time.
The tide was going out and we spotted a big rock with a hole in it and a small amount of water underneath. Naturally, this immediately became a competition. We challenged each other to throw pebbles into the hole.
This is something I’m normally absolutely rubbish at. My hand-eye coordination is next to useless. I was always the last person to be picked for a team when we played rounders at school. But today, something strange happened. I must have had some sort of external being guiding my arm because I was the first to get a pebble in the hole. Then another. And another. 3–0 to me! I never win at anything, so I was beginning to feel rather smug.
Eventually, I decided I needed a rest and sat back to watch Steve attempt to catch up. Which, eventually, he did, obviously at this point his aim was to beat my score. We did have to wait quite a while for that to happen though, so I’m taking that as a win.
On the way back to the caravan, we stopped at Tesco for milk and somehow a tub of salted caramel ice cream accidentally fell into my basket. I’m sure it will be good for my poorly, sick tongue. Medicinal ice cream sounds good to me.
Another morning brought mushed banana and another tepid cup of tea. Steve headed off on his bike ride while I had a couple of jobs to do before settling down with my crochet hook, Radio 2 and a spot of people watching while the world warmed up.
It was still early, so there wasn’t much movement. Sara Cox was waking the world up and I was watching the campsite slowly come to life.
My first dose of entertainment came in the form of two men whom I’ve named David and Goliath. Purely because of the size of their motorhomes. Goliath was in a huge Concorde, whilst David resided in a considerably smaller Carthago.
They were pitched opposite each other and were comparing electric bikes while their wives bustled in and out, setting tables for breakfast. Goliath kept bringing things out of his cavernous garage for David to inspect. At this point, I started wondering what their professional lives looked like. What jobs did these men do? Was Goliath a retired CEO? Was David an accountant? Were they both secretly international spies? I’ll never know. But I know they both had egos as big as their motorhomes.
Then Freda exited the toilet block and distracted my gaze. She resembled Gypsy Rose Lee as she floated across the grass pitches in a turban and floaty dressing gown, which she was struggling to keep together whilst wrestling with a huge bag full of lotions and potions and a large wet towel. She avoided eye contact with David and Goliath as she struggled past. Meanwhile Barbara Woodhouse wanders across the grass, both dogs off leads reading pee mails and obviously replying to some. Her dog training days have obviously gone out of the window. People watching really is the gift that keeps on giving.
Before I knew it, it was time for arrivals.
Now, I have a question. Why do some people arrive in their motorhome, throw every skylight and window wide open, turn the air conditioning on full pelt and then go out in the car? Make it make sense. Anders on the back of a postcard please. And air-conditioning units are so blooming noisy!
Then came Mr Swoosh Bang. Oh yes. They had started appearing around us. Fortunately, this particular one was towing a caravan, so despite all the openings and the shutting of the side door whilst he set up, hopefully he wouldn’t be too bad once he was settled.
He did get me wondering about the correct order of setting up, though.
Caravan pitched.
Air awning up.
Water barrel filled.
Cuppa consumed.
Then put the legs down.
I’ve decided that working for the Club has made me less tolerant of people. Or maybe it’s age. It’s more than likely both.
But driving the wrong way around site, walking through other people’s pitches and the sheer number of dogs being allowed off their leads really grinds my gears. I may have to accept that I’m turning into one of those miserable old people who sits in the caravan muttering about campsite etiquette.
Another trip out took us down towards Bishops Waltham, where our destination was the Palace ruins.
What a wonderful find. The ruins sit in beautiful grounds with loads of green space and plenty of benches where you can sit and simply take it all in. The ruins looked amazing against the blue skies of late September.
A very short walk from the palace ruins is the small town of Bishops Waltham. It’s a lovely little town with very few high-street names but plenty of rather bourgeois gift shops, butchers and even an old-fashioned hardware shop that looks as though it sells absolutely everything.
We popped into a rather hippy-looking shop for a browse. Half an hour later, after somehow giving our life stories to two lovely ladies behind the counter, both of whom were called Deborah, and one of whom was actually married to a Steve, we left with the most divine-smelling bar of soap.
I have a confession. As well as being addicted to photographing doors and collecting balls of wool, I also have a penchant for expensive bars of soap. They sit in drawers containing clothes and underwear, and in the bedding box, quietly waiting for the current bar to run out. Then I get to rummage through my collection and choose a new one to grace my bathroom sink. Mad as a box of frogs, I know. But I could collect a hundred and one more expensive things,At least I actually use my soap.
The weather then decided to take a turn, I was still in shorts and sandals. I refuse to accept that summer is taking its final curtain call. The temperature had dropped and the world was definitely damper than I’m used to, but I wasn’t quite ready to surrender the shorts just yet.
Whilst Steve headed out on the bike, I did a few housekeeping jobs around the caravan. Taking the rubbish on a hike to the bins at the entrance is a task in itself. I forget that I don’t actually work for the Club any longer, so I give everyone I pass a cheerful “Good morning” and, obviously, end up in conversation with at least one person. I really should learn to keep my mouth shut.
Back at the van, the kettle went on, my feet went up and I settled down with my book and crochet while waiting for my tea to cool to an acceptable temperature for my poorly tongue.
And then, finally, some good news for my tongue. My stitches had dissolved and I had a little more movement. I’m also getting back to almost eating a normal diet. After a week of soup, yoghurt, mashed potato and Mr Rone, this felt like a major achievement.
A trip out to Whiteley Village was a trip out that if you require a shopping fix, dining out or a cinema trip is worth a look. A relatively new outdoor shopping complex not too big but with all the high street names in eateries and shops. I’m still not up to eating properly so we opted for a coffee from Cafe Nero, courtesy of Octopus Energy and admiring the lovely little sculptures that are dotted around.
Looking back, I think this week away has done me the world of good. Being forced to stop, rest and simply pootle around has given my body time to recover and, perhaps more importantly, has given my brain a rest too.
Sometimes you don’t need an exotic destination, a packed itinerary or a list of places to visit. Sometimes you just need a caravan door, a sunny pitch, a crochet hook, a cup of tepid tea and absolutely nothing you have to do.
And, of course, a little sprinkling of caravan magic dust.
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