There’s nothing more satisfying than throwing a boxful of food in the back and ‘taking off’ to see the world.
We’ve travelled through valleys so steep it looks like the sheep are Velcroed to the hillsides. We’ve careered round hairpin bends (idly wondering how many workmen were injured painting ‘SLOW’ in the most dangerous parts of the road), and crawled along mountain edges (teeth clenched, bodies paralysed in fear).
One of the drawbacks of touring, however, is actually witnessing the locale as it flashes passed. When one is driving and the other is (supposedly) map reading, there isn’t a great deal of time left between squabbles to savour the scenery.
In other countries (i.e. Wales), it’s very difficult to navigate when you can’t even read the town names, much less pronounce them.
“Where are we?” asks the driver.
“Er, just about to hit Llan … Llan … That place there!”
Navigator pushes the map book towards the driver, who glances at it briefly and veers violently towards the kerb.
There’s another thing about kerbs. In some places, they don’t make pavements wide enough for pedestrians. The poor souls teeter along six inch strips like tight-rope walkers, while you hurtle towards them doing ninety (okay, fifty) with jutting wing mirrors the size of patio doors. Still, those oversized mirrors come in handy when you want to check if the pedestrian you just passed is still vertical.
Navigating is a dull job that entails split second decisions. At busy junctions, the driver is apt to stop, leer at you and sarcastically ask which way we’re going next, whilst behind a hundred angry motorists sit with their hands on their sonic assisted horns. If you’re a female, it’s best to just panic at this point and scream that you haven’t the foggiest idea (whereupon the fifth argument in half an hour will ensue). If you’re of the male gender, shrug nonchalantly and mutter, “Wherever the wind takes us, man.” Neither will get a good response from the road-weary driver.
As you sit in the passenger seat, map book on your lap and finger pressed firmly to the place where you think you are in the tangled of coloured spaghetti which represents roads, don’t even consider looking up for the briefest moment to peek out of the window. In that split second, the camper will have covered a dozen miles, taken as many left and right hand turns and be on Page 13 of the map book while you’re still pointing at Page 2.
If you think map reading is bad, try driving. It’s not all a feast of Yorkie bars. They make lanes too narrow, bridges too low and hills like rock faces. Two miles per hour up a 1 in 3 gradient is definitely not for those of a nervous disposition. You know second gear is, shall we say, ‘slightly temperamental’, so you avoid it and stay in third until the engine threatens to stall.
The time to lose your grip on reality is when you’re changing down and the gear stick jams in neutral. As you start rolling backwards, the horns of the two mile tailback will remind you of your problem.
Finally, you make it to the summit and encounter a down-slope that looks like something hand-gliders would launch themselves off. All faces press against the windscreen like splattered pink chewing gum.
Half way down, there’s a sharp left turn. Hubby screams his orders … sorry, ‘offers instructions’.
“Turn the wheel to the left.”
I haul on the un-power assisted wheel for a few muscle-aching minutes.
“Brake!”
I press the pedal to the metal and we’re still going like a spaceship on re-entry.
“Now,” he says, “Get into second gear.”
That’s when he loses me. I have more chance of finding a fifteenth century artefact in the glove compartment than I have of finding second gear. It’s more elusive than aliens from another planet.
“All you have to do,” hubby says, ultra-patiently, “Is turn the wheel, brake, pump the clutch a few times, shift gear, rev the accelerator and … voila!” Voila roughly translates as ‘Oh my God you’re on the wrong side of the road at an angle of 45 degrees.’ That’s the cue for another argument.
When the sun drops out of the sky like a rock, a dilemma arises. Do you park at the side of the road and risk being kept awake all night by passing traffic (who take great delight in blasting their horns at 2am lest, by accident, you’ve fallen asleep), or do you find a campsite? The latter is difficult. You may have passed 2,599 campsites on the way, but they’re like policemen ... try finding one when you want one.
Wherever you decide to stay, it’ll never be on level ground. You won’t notice this until the water gathers along one side of the washing up bowl, food slides off your plates, or you roll over in bed at night and find yourself gambolling towards the back doors.
Nights are fun. Every owl, every bat, every nocturnal animal within a 15 mile radius will fly, shuffle or scrabble by outside, convincing you of the existence of werewolves, vampires and nasty things that go ARGH! in the night.
Never stop on the moors or in open countryside, no matter how pretty it looks in daylight. Once the sun sets, the outside view will be so deeply black it will seem like you’ve slipped off the face of the planet and are floating aimlessly in space.
Another handy tip is to never, but never, let any member of your party out of your sight under any circumstances. Dissuade or disable the husband who thinks it’s a brilliant idea to take a solo bicycle ride at five o’clock in the morning.
“Meet you here in an hour,” he’ll say, thrusting a map in front of your semi-conscious face and pointing fleetingly at a thin red line.
A vast amount of time and hundreds of miles will be wasted trying to locate him again, while he froths and seethes at some remote passing place that hasn’t seen traffic since the horse-drawn days.
Its also Sods Law that, as soon as you’re left along on the highway, offspring will start a fatal battle in the back, the dog will develop diarrhoea of waterfall proportions, and a tyre will blow out.
It’s interesting to note the different reactions to a flat tyre. Men revert to basic male instinct when doing battle with a welded wheel nut. They get mad, they get real mad (earplugs compulsory). Women take the easy option. If it looks too hard, they get someone else to do it.
Should you be foolish enough to take kids and pet with you, a warning. Kids will need at least ten changes of clothing during a twelve hour period, and a mobile warehouse from Toys R Us.
And if you’re child if the type who wriggles down his bed at night to lie huddled beneath a ton of blankets, watch out for him in a sleeping bag. He’ll wriggle to the bottom of it, wriggle off the bed, across the camper floor and into the front cab, where he will no doubt exit and wriggle across the campsite if not captured in time.
And dogs. Never let a dog off the lead unless you enjoy travelling form Birmingham to Edinburgh every weekend to look for him. Try to ignore his pitiful looks when you push him into the front drivers seat to sleep with three suitcases, a table, four folding chairs and a pile of dirty washing. And do always remember to until him from the back bumper before driving off anywhere.
Travelling thousands of miles in a mobile home is an unforgettable experience. There’s nothing like driving off into the sunset, gears crashing, companions screaming, to have a nice relaxing time on the road.
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