Air travel isn’t what it used to be. I think we can all admit that. Those of us who don’t fly British Airways on a regular basis understand the true pandemonium of trying to get to Luton Airport at 3am with an Uber driver half asleep at the wheel. We understand what it means to sit on the tarmac for two hours with the smell of faecal matter and burp being pumped around by a broken air-conditioning unit. We understand what it is to pay £10 for a bath-warm Coke and a pressurised packet of pringles that will inevitably explode into the aisle.
So, what can we do about it? Well, without the dosh, I’m afraid not very much, Son. Though we can look inwards.
Enter the caravan holiday. They’ve been around for a while: since before air travel commercialised, before morning pints and Full English Breakfasts on the Costa Del Sol, before Ayia Napa and a clingy case of gonorrhoea, before Brits began swarming the coasts of European countries and filling them with back tattoos and a steely determinism to come home far sicker than they left.
Now, I know that caravan holidays get a bad rap. They conjure up images of tiny television sets and fathers who look like Rab C. Nesbitt. But there’s more to them than that. I had some of my best holidays in caravans – I just didn’t know it.
We like to think the world has moved on from corrugated iron and huddling by the radio with the whole family to listen to The Archers. It hasn’t – at least not in the world of caravans and wet British summers. Much of the joy to be gleaned from caravanning comes from its old-worldly feel. The whole thing can feel a bit like The Blitz experience at The Imperial War Museum.
Or so I thought. It seems caravans have come a long way since I was last in one. In today’s world – a world obsessed with technology and progress – the humble caravan has needed to catch up, and catch up it has. Most of the caravans on Haven Holidays’ website boast flatscreen televisions, Wi-Fi and built-in Bluetooth speakers. These caravans are a far cry from the metal and plastic tombs I remember from the early 00s. I just hope they’ve retained that heady smell of wet dog and Grandma’s favourite slippers. That was my favourite.
And unlike Airbnbs and villas along the Amalfi Coast, caravanning brings with it a sense of community, of camaraderie. Children fight in the machine-gun rain, parents get drunk together and shout at seagulls, uncles and aunties lose most of their life savings on the in-house slot machines.
Price aside, caravans are a weird concept. We drive across the country to escape the monotony of our daily routine, only to sit in one of a thousand mini-homes and do the exact same things we’d be doing at home. It doesn’t matter that you’re in Devon. You could be anywhere. You don’t care. There’s a pub on site and the television still gets repeats of Michael McIntyre’s aneurism-inducing comedy sets.
That’s another thing: the entertainment. There’s nothing like it. Two wrestlers oiled up and being heckled with pejoratives by a crowd of thirsty alcoholics? Tick. Weekly bingo? Tick. Evenings reminiscent of Phoenix Nights? You bet!
I remember one poor soul who came out as the evening’s host/singer. Out he ran, plastic-diamond tuxedo and top hat adorned, heartfully singing ‘The Gambler’ in his dulcet Northern tones. I was only seven but I’ll never forget the shock horror on his face as an audience of five people stared stupidly back. But our local Kenny Rogers prevailed, and the night was a blast.
There’s no room to be snotty. If you want to be snotty, take your Land Rover glamping
This is what I’m getting at. You have to be willing to take caravanning for what it is – scars and boils included – to have fun. There’s no room to be snotty. If you want to be snotty, take your Land Rover glamping.
And to give credit where it’s due, caravan parks are often a stone’s throw from some of Britain’s most striking beaches, cliffs, and natural parks. If you want to break the status quo and walk outside the resort’s parameters, you’ll find a whole new world out there. A world of breathable air. A world where the sound of fruit machines no longer haunts your dreams.
I love caravan holidays. They’re ridiculous and awful and that’s what makes them great. They’re slices of a bygone era that are trying desperately to keep up with the modern world, albeit unsuccessfully in most cases.
Enough with being turned back at Gatwick because the pilot isn’t a fan of rain. Enough with paying Ryanair just to check in. Enough with the Stansted Express and the poor souls who have to ride it into Liverpool Street station. Enough, at least for a while, at least until airlines and holiday companies stop shafting the little man. In the meantime, why don’t we all head down to somewhere provincial – Bognor Regis? – and see what the rest of Britain has to offer. If you hate it, you can always drive home.
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