Tag Archives: campervan

Oysters and Out

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Not everyone likes oysters. Common responses to questioning on the subject are ‘ugh’, ‘slimy’, ‘Yuk’ and so on. But I believe these are mostly people who haven’t tried them. There are also those who claim you must tip them down your throat without tasting them- which to my mind is sacrilege. I didn’t sample an oyster until I was in my fifties, considering it one of those activities that should be tried before I got much older. We were on the west coast of France, which could be considered oyster world and seemed like a great place to try. I was won over straight away. I love them. But they must not be cooked, or spiced, or covered in cheese, or drenched in anything but lemon juice and/or maybe vinaigrette.

Since that first go, I’ve rarely eaten oysters at home in the UK. But here in Polzeath, sitting in the Waterside cafe/bar, they are on offer. And I can’t pass up the opportunity. And they are completely delicious- soft and flavoursome. A great start to a meal!

While the Polzeath site has its drawbacks, like the strange showers that we had to pay for, it also has an abundance of friendly wildlife [a tame, young blackbird, the ubiquitous robin, bold rabbits everywhere] and is in a great position. Husband can stride off along the coast path and I can relax with a book in the sunshine. Having finally got the hang of my camera, he returns with some coastal shots- all very rugged.

But it’s time to move again and we’ve only a few days left before we must be back for appointments. We’re returning to Devon, to a farm site at Mortehoe on the north coast, near Woolacombe. I came many years ago. The bad news is that the weather is turning at last and as we drive through the narrow, pretty streets of Mortehoe, dark clouds are gathering. The site is large, with few tourers in. We can see right away that it’s going to be unmanageable for me to walk to the centre, where dining possibilities lie.

It begins to rain and becomes much cooler. We are, at least, not too far from the shower block so an early shower seems to make sense. By the time I emerge it’s raining in earnest and even in the short distance from the block to the van I get wet.

Before long, the rain has closed right in. The windows steam up and it becomes quite miserable. We’ll be catering for ourselves tonight and will have to prepare for a night in the van- which isn’t too much of a hardship as it’s cosy and comfortable and we have laptops and books to amuse us.

The real issue is that the site is booked for three nights. But there’s no sign of an improvement in the weather over the next few days. It’s disappointing, but it looks like we will have to bail out early. We’ll come back another time. And we’re not done with trips yet!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Surfer Heaven

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Some years ago [well- quite a few years ago], Husband took to body-boarding. This was, in part, due to our living by the sea and a perfect, flat, surfy beach. He had wetsuits and all the paraphernalia. Someone asked me if I went out to watch him enjoying this activity, which I found profoundly amusing. [He certainly doesn’t sit and watch me gardening]. Anyway- this is all in the past now.

But my point is, much of Cornwall’s coast is famed for surfing. Indeed, Newquay is surf city and alive with night clubs and the rest, resulting in an altogether rowdy summer scene.

Polzeath, near Padstow, however, is a relatively quiet spot with a small beach, although still hosts crowds of everything surfy: tuition, board hire, wetsuit sales, wetsuit hire, outdoor showers, an explosion of pizza vans and kiosks and anything else surfers need. The small town is just about walkable for me- down through an adjacent site, along a lane and we’re there. Among the pizza places and board hire vans there are one or two useful outlets for us- a Spar supermarket offering most items and a lovely-looking bar/restaurant facing the beach.

To re-enter our site at this lower end, we have been given a fob. We set off [slowly in my case] down to the gate. At this point there are still a fair number of tourers and tents on our end of the site. I like to see tents on a site. We were tent campers for many years before we succumbed to vans and I missed it to begin with.

We’ve got down through the gate and have begun the descent through the steep chalet site on our way to look at the town and buy a few groceries when Husband realises he doesn’t have the key fob to get back. He turns back, leaving me sitting outside the chalet site’s posh reception building, which has a handy bench. While he’s gone [and he has to gain entry to our site by throwing himself on the mercy of a fellow-camper] a robin keeps me company, coming to stand between my feet and staring beseechingly up at me while I chat to him/her. I don’t have any tasty titbits so eventually the tiny bird leaves.

After quite some time, Husband returns, although he hasn’t found the key fob and had to go to our site’s reception for a new one. But we can continue down to Polzeath, where we go down to the beach and get a drink in a rustic bar nestled between wetsuits and pizzas. The beach is mostly obscured by parked cars and vans in a vast car park, but we check out the Waterfront bar and restaurant for another night and trek [and hobble] back to our site, secure at least that we can get back in.

In the van, I find myself staring at Husband. ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ I ask him and he puts his hand into his pocket to pull out the ‘lost’ key fob…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Almost Not Return

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This post contains images of van life in happier times…

So the cheeky quirks of fate were not yet done with us.

We’d booked a ferry crossing from Cherbourg back to Poole as foot passengers, since the van was still immobile and stuck in the car park of a garage [who did not wish to repair it] in the unlovely commercial zone of Lecousse, near Fougeres.

Now it was Wednesday and we were due to sail on an overnight boat. Initially it seemed there were no cabins, although we could get couchettes; then later a cabin became available, which was a rare piece of good luck in a whole chapter of misfortune. The ferry would leave at 9.30pm, meaning that we’d need to be there at the terminal by around 8.45pm. I had rung the assistance number and informed them we’d need a hire car to get to the port and been told that the French AA were working on it.

It was 9.00am. We packed and left our hotel room, taking our luggage down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to collect us and take us to the hire car depot,

We waited. And waited,

I got a text from the French AA to say they were ‘doing their best for us’. Really?

We waited.

We read. We got coffees.

By late morning we were anxious. The weather had become squally, deluges of rain lashing the hotel windows. I rang the AA, to be told they were looking for a car ‘equivalent to the car the client drives’. ‘We drive a campervan’ I told her. ‘We can’t get one of those’ was the reply! I said we’d take ANY car. We needed to get going.

We waited.

At about 2pm I received a text to say a taxi was coming at 3.00pm. We could still get to the ferry if we didn’t hang about too much.

At three, when we were almost climbing the walls of hotel lobby, a taxi came. We climbed in and set off on a ride that seemed ridiculously long, taking precious time off our Cherbourg drive and far from Fougeres, where we’d discovered the nearest ‘Europcar’ hire depot was.

The driver took us to the environs of Rennes, which was a mystery, and dropped us at a car hire office. We took our luggage and entered, giving our details to the woman at the counter. The taxi left. The woman searched her computer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no booking under that name.’ My stomach, [which had churned far too much for an organ affected by IBD] lurched with nausea yet again. The woman searched neighbouring offices and yes, we were at the wrong car hire office. Did I have the number for the French AA? No. I rang the British number and she spoke to them. I looked at my watch. It seemed likely that we would, now, miss the ferry. Then…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will get you a car.’

I feel that beatification is not good enough for this woman-

We did the paperwork, went out to the back, got into a car. Husband would drive. We set off. The car was without a SATNAV and we were in some unidentifiable area of Rennes. I got navigation on my phone and we got out of Rennes, on to the ring road and away.

We made good time, even managing a stop for a coffee and a snack- I’d been unable to eat anything all day. When we reached Cherbourg, we followed instructions from the car hire woman, dropping the car in the station car park. We were still a distance from the ferry terminal but a bus took us there.

Inside the foot passenger building there were 5 of us waiting, in hard, plastic chairs with nothing resembling a cafe, only a dysfunctional coffee machine. At last, we got into a shuttle bus which took us on to the ferry. I have never been so glad to get on to the Barfleur. We found our cabin, dumped bags and went to the bar, sinking into seats, exhausted.

We are home, of course, sans van. As of now, there is no sign of repair, no news that it can be collected. Not only does it have our bikes, locked on to the back, it also contains many of our clothes, shoes and belongings. So we wait…again…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

And the End of the Road…

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We were installed in the ‘Brit’ hotel, a basic, no-frills establishment which had the virtue, at least, of being three minutes walk from our beleaguered van in the garage car park.

Carrying supermarket bags with some clothing, snacks and essentials, we made our way there and checked in, relieved to see a bar, if no restaurant. A cursory look around the zone revealed limited dining options- a Chinese and MacDonalds.

We dumped the bags and repaired to the bar, where, in a gung-ho but unwise move, I had a Leffe beer, which is very strong. The helpful receptionist and bar tender told us of another restaurant- French. So that was three options, plus the van, in which we could cook a meal, although we’d run out of water before long.

In the French restaurant, ‘La Taverne’, we shared an excellent starter then i had a nasty, gristly steak, accompanied, still less wisely, by 2 glasses of Cremont. I would, at least, sleep.

I woke in the small hours- much, much too hot [as always in hotels], sweating and with a headache- the result of Leffe plus Cremont. I drank a lot of water and took painkillers. In the morning- now Sunday, we breakfasted, twiddled thumbs, read, surfed the internet. We moved to the lounge area for a change of scene from our room, We tried a walk in the afternoon, next to a busy road then a turning off up a country lane looked promising, with elegant houses, autumn cyclamen and a friendly donkey, until the rain swept in. We turned back, had a coffee in MacDonalds.

We rustled up a simple meal in the van with what we had and tried to feel optimistic that next day [Monday] things would be sorted.

As Monday morning wore on it became clear that nothing was happening to resolve the repair of our vehicle. I rang the insurer. I rand and rang. Each time I was obliged to listen to all the safety instructions and choose options. When a call was answered there was no news. We frittered away the day, [going stir crazy by now] and went to eat at the Chinese restaurant- a gargantuan buffet, and made a decision to go home minus van.

On Tuesday I rang yet again to tell the assistance of our decision. We’d need a hire car to get to the ferry port. I was assured that the French arm of the company would work on it. The garage where the van was parked said it could stay, but beyond 2 weeks, storage would need to be paid. Now we had some things to do. We must book our crossing as foot passengers, empty the van fridge and dispose of foodstuff. We needed to buy bags to carry as much as we could. A large store, ‘GIF’ sold almost everything, including luggage and we bought two bags with wheels to pack whatever we could manage for our ferry crossing.

We also emptied the fridge of all food that would expire, bagging it and ditching it in a bin. We pulled all the curtains. I felt anxious about our bikes, which although locked, were in full view at the rear of the van on the carrier. But there was nothing we could do. We handed the keys in to ‘Roady’, the garage where it was parked. They could keep it for twelve days and thereafter, storage would be charged. The insurance would have to cover it.

After all of this, it was a waiting game…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Sins on Site and Off

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St David’s cathedral in Pembrokeshire, Wales is a magnificent building and well worth a look, outside and in.

After our visit we climb the steps back up to the village and get an early evening beer before exploring evening dining possibilities, opting for The Bishops, which looks to have a good menu and a quirky interior.

On our return to the camp site we’re greeted with a message attached to our mirror. Apparently we’ve transgressed by parking the wrong way round and we’ve encroached on the next door pitch, as well as committing the grave misdemeanour of having our awning out! Who knew? It’s a wonder we’re not banished or the van impounded for such heinous sins!

We’re rarely subjected to strict rules and regulations when touring- I can only recall once having to park facing the same way as everyone else somewhere in Italy, a town site where it was all hard standing and terraced; but never before in a vast, rural site with oodles of space. The admonishment does nothing to endear the owners/managers of this place to us!

The meal at The Bishops is good, the venue characterful and just busy enough to be interesting. We return to site- up through the village and down the lane.

We’re off again next day to begin our return. Husband has found a site en route. We could have made our return in a day, although it would have been a long day’s travel. The site is outside Bath next to a busy road and half a mile along from a few houses and one large pub. There’s an unexpected shower of rain as we attempt to drive through Bath, clearly a mistake as we get into a muddle and [weeks later] end up with a fine for emissions, something we’d not considered! More sinning!

When we pull up, the iron gates across the site are closed. I ring the site’s number. Apparently we were supposed to look at an email which contained the access code- on a pad next to the gate. Failed again! The manager drives along in a 4×4 tom let us in. It’s an unusual site, highly un-manicured, with huge fields either side of a rough track. I assume it’s a work in progress, as the showers and toilets are in portacabins. There’s no electricity. All of this is fine for us for one overnight stop.

The site isn’t busy but there are a number of tents, some tiny- a group of singles with small cars and a pair of Dutch walkers. This is clearly a site much used for visiting Bath.

We wander up along the busy road to the pub- which is a big, cavernous place hosting a few diners. The fields flanking the road are dusty, beige prairies, bearing the mark of repeated heatwaves and drought that the UK has suffered this year, but there remains a wonderful crop of blackberries in the hedgerow, so brambles must be exceptionally resilient plants.

Then it’s home again and a start to planning the next getaway…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Lane of no Memory

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Having looked at Porth Cawl and had a very acceptable meal in the Rose and Crown pub in Nottage, it’s time to leave and move on to the next site.

We’re booked into a site at St Davids, in Pembrokeshire. I’ve been here before, many years ago and subsequently learn that I’ve been here twice, apparently having been on a camping trip with my youth club. I remembered we’d had a camping trip but forgotten the location. What I do recall is that I was on my own with a load of lads. Heaven knows how I was allowed to go by my parents!

The site is down an extremely narrow lane some little way out of town and down a steepish hill. At least the return from St Davids town will be downhill! It’s a huge site with several fields, of which ours is some distance from the gate and also the shower block.

We park up and chock up, as it’s a slope and we make sure we have a good view of the coastline from the van- and it is a spectacular view- rocky cliffs, coves and caves, dashed by foamy waves. We set up and decide on a walk [up the hill] into St Davids. It’s narrow enough that we must press ourselves into the hedgerow whenever a vehicle comes, and there are plenty of them as ours is not the only site down this lane.

I don’t remember much about St Davids, so the fact that I’ve been twice before isn’t an issue. But I do remember the amazing cathedral.

Is it a village or a town? It’s hard to say but it has just one main street, although it’s packed with a lot of well known retailers like Fatface and Go Outdoors, plus ice cream parlours, gift shops and a kind of antiques emporium in a grand building. Of course, none of these retailers was here for either of my previous trips, or even existed, I imagine. Perhaps it is one benefit of older age that poor memory blurs past events and travel? I may as well not have been here at all!

The ice cream parlour is very busy but has only one, unappealing vegan ice cream flavour, so I pass.

Further down the street there’s a small craft market on the island in the centre and further still, through an archway, there is the cathedral. It’s a glorious sight- vast and beautiful, nestling in the dip between the hills. But it’s still a long way down to the entrance, a choice of slope or steps.

There’s a stream at the bottom and we cross the bridge between the ruins of what used to be the bishop’s palace and the great cathedral. Here is a great setting for such iconic buildings, although when we take a look at the exterior of the bishop’s palace we decide not to pay to go inside, since there’s little left to see!

To the cathedral, then; we return to the main entrance and through the porch. And we’re not disappointed…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Welsh Seaside Walk

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The uplifting feeling of having been to a stadium concert and shared crowd song lasts. Fragments of song revisit and become earworms. Getting down off the top tier of the stand is less onerous than the ascent, although it takes a long time- waiting for row upon row to filter out to the steps so that we’re almost the last. Then walking back around and down the last flights.

I begin to realise I’m starving and it’s late. Outside the stadium there are, of course, food stands; ready and waiting for the stream of hungry gig-goers. There’s no option, at this time of night, other than to indulge in a fast-food binge- which we do, but there’s nowhere to sit and eat it so we’re obliged to eat walking along, which I hate. I’ve never been able to understand the desire to walk along with a coffee or food and I can only really enjoy anything comestible whilst sitting down- preferably at a table.

We reach a main street where a wobbly bench provides a perch and finish off the food. Then it’s back to the hotel for a last beer before bed.

Next day we retrace our steps- station- station and return to the van [hopefully]. En route I do experience some trepidation. What if it’s been robbed? Or vandalised? But no- there it is, squeezed into the little ‘Just Park’ space in the housing estate with no ill effects. And it’s cool, too, from having had the curtains drawn. Phew!

Since we’re here in Wales it seems rude not to spend a bit more time and we’re off towards Porth Cawl, where we’ve booked a site nearby on the outskirts of a village called Nottage. We need to negotiate some tiny, narrow lanes to get there but we find the site, yet another farm venue. It’s clearly a regulars’ holiday spot, with many of the units housing folks who know each other. They’re friendly to us, too- helping out when we have trouble with the hook-up. It’s a little cheeky of the site to charge electricity on top of their tariff, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Down the lane outside, under a railway bridge, turn right and up another hill and we are in Nottage, which has two pubs, both of which look lovely.

We get a beer in one of them and assess its possibility for a meal next day.

We can walk to Porth Cawl from our site, along a footpath, first to Nottage then across the road and past a quaint forge, though I’m disappointed not to see a horse in the process of getting shoes…

After a while, traipsing up and down and past houses then along some coast path, we get to the outskirts of Porth Cawl. First impressions are of a run down seaside town, down on its luck, but it’s not true of all of the town. Once there was a swanky pavilion, but it’s fenced off, hopefully to be renovated. Further along there’s a a marina. Most of the front is smart and landscaped, however there’s no sign of a public lavatory anywhere!

We choose a seafront cafe for tea and cake, timing it well as while we’re inside the heavens open and we emerge to wet pavements.

We walk along the High Street which boasts some sea-themed sculptures and a small market cross, but little else of interest. But we can get a bus back to Nottage- which is a result!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Good, the Bad and the Sad

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On the last day in Nether Wasdale it rains steadily for the entire morning, then brightens up for us to get out walking in the afternoon.

This time we take a route around to the other side of the lake and it’s beautiful with woods, lanes and spectacular views. Part of our route follows the lake then up through some overgrown paths on to the narrow road. I spend some time attempting to photograph the butterflies on the brambles, without success as they have a tendency to flutter away while I’m trying to focus!

In the evening we stroll across to the pub to get a meal and it turns out to be exceptional for pub food. It’s also busy and characterful- surprising for such an out-of-the-way hostelry- and many of the customers are locals.

Next morning it’s time to go, although I’ve a soft spot for this tiny backwater. We have to dodge rain to pack up and as we leave the heavens really do open. There’s a hiatus while we get in a muddle and go the wrong way, confused by the very narrow roads and turnings, but at last we’re out and away.

The motorway M6 is never a pleasant journey at the best of times and as we negotiate the busy junctions and ‘spaghetti’ that is Birmingham we are dogged by traffic jams. I feel bad for those who must drive routes like these every day.

It’s a long day. Following a protracted search for a stopover to break our journey I found a pub site a camping field in Staffordshire, ‘The New Broom’. The route takes us through some of Stoke-on-Trent, which has historically been a pottery town but has suffered huge economic blows in later years, mainly I suppose from cheaper, imported pottery. I’ve never visited and I’m sure Stoke has some lovely, historic sights but what we see as we pass through is run down and unlovely.

After the early morning rain, the day turns hot and sticky. In the pub’s field, several units are already set up. It’s near to the popular theme park, Alton Towers, so there are families with caravans or vans and excited children. The bar is thronged with customers when we go to check in- some kind of ‘do’…a wedding. perhaps? I ask the barman. No- it’s a wake…

The New Broom pub is by a busy road but the portacabin showers are clean and acceptable, although later, when we go to take advantage of the bar meals, we are obliged to wait a very long time to be served despite the very few fellow diners and when it does arrive, the meal is disappointing,

There’s a noticeable increase in the price of UK sites and stopovers, reflecting, perhaps the general state of the UK economy?

A slew of traffic holdups when we left has forced us to rethink our route home. The weather turns hotter still. We stop at a small service station outside Warminster and I go to get us an ice cream as a pick-me-up. I make tea. We go to set off again- except that we’re going nowhere- there’s no way to get the van into gear. We’re at the roundabout by the garage. Husband forces the gearbox into first gear so that we can limp round into the car park- which also happens to be the Travelodge car park- and there we stop, our only option the insurance recovery, which I ring, receiving a promise of a 2 hour wait.

Six hours later I ring again. It’s now almost 10 o’clock, which is the time by which you must book if you want to reserve a room at the Travelodge, which we do. The recovery call handler expresses shocked disbelief that nobody has come and assures me that someone will be here in the morning. There’s nothing else for it- it’s a night in the dubious splendour of the Travelodge with a choice of Burger King, Greggs or Subway. Luckily we have bread and cheese in the van and in any case- Subway, as the apologetic server explains, has no bread left.

Next morning the AA man arrives promptly to tell us what we already knew. We need a recovery vehicle to get us and the poor van home. Ho Hum…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Nether Regions

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The site at Nether Wasdale is at a working farm and has, allegedly, a farm shop, which sounds promising, although when we pull up to check in it appears to have everything except items you would expect from a farm shop, eg vegetables, fruit, meat and so on. A cursory glance around reveals a wealth of sweets, toys and ice cream, which might say more about the clientele on site than the farm. Later, when we call in, in search of potatoes, the woman behind the counter tells us there’s no call for them. They do provide breakfasts- presumably of the ‘full English’ kind- but we’re not breakfasters.

The site is in an attractive location, surrounded by hills and has been sympathetically landscaped, except that our allotted pitch is almost entirely encased in trees. We move to a sunnier, more open pitch next door. There are very few tourers here, although the chalets look busier.

The weather has turned changeable but we’re keen to get some walking in, especially as I’ve had a few months off from exercise. We start by having a wander around the village, which doesn’t take long. Just outside the entrance to the site there’s a tiny church, white painted, which you could easily mistake for a house- its interior cute. I wonder what size of congregation attends the services.

Along the road there are two pubs opposite each other, one looking more actively operational than the other. Further on there’s a stone bench and a phone box plus a sign to tell us it’s ‘Copeland’s best kept small village’. We are none the wiser- we’ve no clue as to the whereabouts of Copeland. Opposite the sign there’s some kind of stone monument, looking like a miniature castle, that may have been a drinking fountain. Other than a few houses further up the hill that’s about it for Nether Wasdale.

We strike out in the other direction, away from the village and discover more habitation. There’s a cafe with a gift shop on the site of an old water mill, the mill wheel still turning behind a glass window. It’s a pleasant spot, clearly popular with walkers and we can sit outside with a coffee, by the river. I become fascinated by the conversation a group, sitting around at the tables outside, is having. They are some young people in deep discussion with an older man, [group leader, perhaps?] and are not at all happy- indeed are disgruntled- especially one young woman who declares herself bored and not enjoying the activities on offer on what is, perhaps a youth centre break. The older man is trying to establish a consensus on what they’d all like to do next day, with little success!

Next day we set off on a longer expedition- to Was Lake, up a gravel track, through a farmyard and down between fields of sheep- which are, of course, everywhere. Up above us , rocky hills have thin streams of water tumbling down their steep sides. Once we reach the lake there’s a large pipe in the water, coming from a stone building on the edge of the lake, here to alleviate the drought conditions which are affecting most parts of the UK currently.

But this is as far as we can walk on this side of the lake, unless we want to try and walk round on the scree- which we don’t!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Strawberry Hill

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Our first proper destination on this northern trip is to a site near Durham called Strawberry Hill Farm. The older sibling I’m visiting cannot accommodate a van but we’re near enough to do visiting and meet up.

When we arrive to site, having religiously followed the instructions and not our SATNAV, we pull up opposite reception- which- in spite of the sign indicating it should be open- is firmly closed. We peer in at the window at the tables, chairs and stacked shop shelves [the site claims to serve breakfasts and teas]. We stand at a side gate marked ‘private’ with a view of sloping lawns and dogs not inclined to bark. There is no bell, buzzer or phone number to ring. At last a young man appears and opens up. The site is quiet. We’ve booked. Were we not expected?

We’re directed through a barrier and to our pitch, which is fine. We’re opposite a large, new shower block- unfinished. The existing showers are next to reception, there are two and they are a little past it, something we knew already from reviews. But if it’s clean and there is hot water I’m rarely concerned about site showers.

Later on, the rellies turn up to visit, which is lovely, except that while we’re in mid-flow of catching up, an interested campsite caretaker is Hell bent on getting a conversation too…

In the early evening we decide to go down to the nearest pub- which is about half a mile down the road, walkable except that there’s no footpath alongside the busy dual carriageway. A path down through the fields would have been lovely though. we pile into the car.

We have a couple of days going out and about doing family things in County Durham. The weather has turned hot and once Friday comes we return from an outing to find the site jam packed for the weekend. The ‘Giddiup’ bar [a repurposed horse box] is doing a roaring trade and the tables outside reception are full.

It’s time to take our leave, but as we’re not about to make this journey without seeing a bit more of the north of our country so having packed up, we turn the van towards the Pennines. The day becomes squally and we’re dogged by traffic jams. We’re not able to find anywhere remotely ‘picnic’ for lunch, which we must stop in a layby to have, the views across the moors obscured by gales and rain.

We’re heading to the Lake District- a beautiful part of the UK that is also a tourist magnet. The last time we came up here was during a winter, in January, cold but still lovely. Now though, in June, it’s much busier and our preferred site, at Keswick, is packed and has no availability, so we’ve opted to visit a much less well known place at Ullswater, Pooley Bridge. The site- an enormous area by a working farm, is only just out of the village up a steep hill, but it’s walking distance. So far so good!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com