Dozens of young couples in tents are
invariable all in a field of their own ‘cos the noise generated from one bit of
canvas to the next tends to cancel each other out. Next door, however, in the
field containing the dishwashing and shower block with all the hook ups for
electric that you paid extra for, you get the cliff edge view looking down over
the sea where it’s all very sedate, but don’t you believe it. There’s no spanking
of course keen as you are because the children are too close in the awning tent
and besides, to make it any good it has to be hard and then everyone will hear
it! I mean, you start from the crazy presupposition that you’re the only one
doing it… that everyone else can hear you and know what your wife likes and you
don’t want them to hear you slapping her bottom because you’re really a prude.
But the truth of the matter is that everyone
wants to get their wife’s arse over their knee but don’t want anyone else to
hear, just in case you’re the only one doing it and they all think you’re a bit
strange let us say!
Mobile home holidays however are really about
something more than a bit of wild sex. They’re for the kids, and of course for
the dogs you had to take along. Among others the Doberman your wife persists in
calling ‘baby’… but kids and dogs aside
they’re often about showing off the vehicle you’re driving. Your almost brand
new six berth pride and joy that’s got an aerial on the roof that makes people
think you’re working for GCHQ. Alternatively you could be flaunting your newly
acquired second hand camper van. Power steering with toilet and shower. Only
sixty thousand on the clock that you got for a thousand less than the asking
price because you’re a hard-nosed bastard from Essex who’d throttle his own
grandmother for two large.
Then there’s the serious sized tent you’ve
got attached on the side. Big enough for the little bull terrier affably known
to the family as Bollocks along with Hovis the Labrador. They’re in one corner
the kids in another. The tent however has got an extension inside of which is the
nuclear powered barbecue you recently bought in some New Age Camping Shop, a
spare starter motor, just in case, a kite for the kids to fly, three crates of your
favourite lager and most important of all, your two favourite gnomes from the
back garden, Socrates and Kaka. Did I hear you say philosophers? Arsehole! No,
we’re talking Brazil here. Anyway you’ve even had the annexe fitted with proper
Venetian Blinds that you can pull down over the clear plastic windows when
necessary. Attached to the back door are two bicycles on racks while on the roof
there’s the rubberized dinghy. Yeah, let them all look! Great for doing coastal
waters whenever you fancy with the high speed engine it’s carrying!
So there you are, occupying the largest
space in field next to all the other big rigs. Everyone eyeing up everyone else.
You slipped the site warden a tenner to keep you away from the Liverpool mob
that only arrived yesterday when the schools broke up. Typical! All of them
sitting together last night drinking the cheap stuff till way gone midnight and
leaving their glasses all over the place. Well, what do you expect? Spoil it
for everyone else they do! Up early and first in the toilets. Little wonder with all that dog food grilling
up on their disposable barbies.
Camping sites are a mecca for gossip. Many
motor-home campers go to the same place year after year just to meet up with
old friends. Have a drink out together in the little circle of people they’re
comfortable with and talk about what they’ve been doing. Yes, comfort is very
important on official camping sites, especially emotional and psychological comfort
and once a year you all congregate together in your own protected little place
in the wilderness. Somewhere that’s got just about everything. Sit round a
table with a fruit bowl on it and talk shit! The kids are all asleep in the dog’s
tent so you can engage in comfortable bonhomie under the stars.
Every year through the summer millions of
British go playing camping with all its equipment, its rituals, its pleasures
forced or otherwise and its disasters. You set out from home as an act of faith
with hope at the back of your head. A belief that you’re all going to enjoy it
which in truth is more like wishful thinking than anything else. A kind of desperate
determination along with a prayer that it won’t piss with rain all the time,
that the food doesn’t go rotten in the fridge, that a freak wave won’t wash the
kids away in the sea or little Tommy won’t fall off a cliff. Then there’s all
the will she or won’t she anxiety
going round in your skull and Christ, there’s only one shop in the village and
nobody wants fish and chips anymore because you’ve been eating it for the last
six months and this is supposed to be a holiday? So what else is new?
The weather’s changed. Five days of sun and
heat before the holidays started and now its bucketing with rain and you’re
stuck in the tin box you saved for with the kids playing the same old games on
the IPad. Still you’re part of the motor homes fraternity and considerably
better off than those youngsters in their tents with the rain soaking their bedding.
Camping writ large is a special case of British one-upmanship. At worst you can
cook in a caravan but just think of those miserable bastards stuck in their
tents eating Mars Bars twenty-four seven! We on the other hand are mobile! We
can drive down to the pub or the Heritage Centre if we fancy, come back and be
in the dry while the creeps under canvas are knee deep in mud! What we used to do a thousand years ago when
we were young, like going on demos and being all green.
On camping-mobile home holidays the British
take the class system with them, especially if they’ve got something worth
flaunting. Those in tents on the other hand don’t seem to care. If it’s boys
and girls it’s more about togetherness than anything else. Meeting challenges and
doing things together. It’s a kind of test, a preparation for the life ahead
they might spend together. The girl busy with the food for her man even if it’s
just porridge and milk and cheese sandwiches, helping him fix up the tent in
the wind and demonstrating her nest building skills. Her man keeping her warm
and cosy at night when the wind’s howling outside and the clothes hung out to
dry are wrecked. They’ll talk quietly about all the creeps up there in the next
field in their tin boxes, removed from any closeness to nature which is really
what it’s all about so they think and go home all smug and self-satisfied that they’re the real campers, tuned into
solidarity more than anything else, but thirty years later, with a family,
mortgage, and running their very own business, or at least with executive jobs
at the bank they’ll have forgotten all the brave words they once thought made
them different and be up there in the next field with the rest of them, in a
tin box of their own with a side tent, two kids and a husky.
Camping holidays are for the adventurous
and all British people, one way or another, love to feel that they are. Just
imagine being thought of as an old stick in the mud. They can call you names,
think about you any way they like just as it’s not someone who never does
anything or goes anywhere. What, going
camping at your age Bill? There’s nothing you like to hear your neighbor
say more than that! Yes, you’re still being adventurous at your age. It might not be in a tent anymore but you’re still
getting out. Going somewhere distant. Looking down over green fields and
valleys from high up or walking down the dunes to the sea. All the others, however, and the phrase generally refers to anyone
working class north of Buckingham, prefer going into the nearest seaside town
proper, doing their fish n chips suppers or curry sauce with chicken nuggets
and playing the slots. You won’t invite THEM
to sit round your table on a warm early evening sipping your vodka and
tonic. No ways! You’re you and they’re them. You don’t even like talking to
them but still put on a friendly disposition because it doesn’t cost anything
to be civil just as long as you make them know, in the gentlest most subtle of
ways, where your invisible garden fence is i.e. that their kids can’t play
anywhere near you and their dogs have to be an a two foot lead. Heavens, just
think of them shitting anywhere near you. Turning the whole camp site into a
sewage farm after only a day that they arrived.
Thank God there’s a Warden permanently on
site! I really don’t like to say but… I
mean, you always get that kind of thing with people from Liverpool… I mean, I
don’t know how they can afford that kind of thing, all of them being on
benefits… but then it really isn’t so hard to imagine…
Well it’s just about alright as long as
there’s the weather or there’s only a few of them. Just think of them
congregating in swarms and the things those kids will be getting up to on a
rainy day! If you’re going out for a walk just make sure you’ve got the wheel
lock on Cyril and the Doberman’s nicely inside! Did anyone actually think that
you brought it for exercise or a paddle down in the cove? No, you brought it
along to keep the tattoo mob at bay!
Okay, so you’ve taken the kids to the
Heritage Centre, gone for a boat trip round the bay or fishing further afield.
You went Pony Trekking, listened to the colliery brass band playing the
Cobbler’s March at the village fete where you watched the vegetables being
judged, talked all about rural life with some farmer or other, saw tall ships
tied up at harbour moorings in Devon and learned about life at sea from some
old fucker with a white beard who looked like Captain Fish Fingers, watched the
lower classes queuing up for the evening’s cholesterol while you and yours
walked into the Port Somewhere or Other pub restaurant for Sea Bass and baby
potatoes with a chilled Chardonnay, and that’s showing your ignorance because
the only white wine for fish is a chilled Chenin Blanc! Okay, maybe you all
went down to the harbour to watch the boats coming in loaded with lobsters and
crabs then tried some seafood in tubs. That’s really adventurous for anyone
under thirty but you remember your dad liking the stuff so it couldn’t be bad,
for you that is, with vinegar, pepper and salt. Then there’s always the evening
show at the Playhouse, featuring some has-been group out of the seventies or
comedienne Jackie what’s-her-name who used to be funny. Well it wasn’t actually
great but you shared in the laughs and were kept entertained by the quietly
desperate revolving summer playhouse performers who’ve long past their prime
and know how to put on a show and a face.
Yes it’s seeing things for you ‘cos the
kids don’t want to go hiking. Maybe some sea caving but definitely not hiking.
Ten miles on a coastal path in pouring rain or a baking hot sun, forget it! That’s
for the kids up the hill in their tents. You are family camping and don’t you forget it. There’s a big difference
between what you are there for and them. Then of course there’s another whole
species of camper. The static home mob! Whole houses on raised concrete
platforms close to the sea with two of three bedrooms and all mod cons. It’s
big business. Buy a piece of land at a good site, first paying off Head of
Planning at the local council, bring in the concrete for a hundred pitches or
more then move in the same number of bijou residences, each on their own little
patch of concrete and green. A few shrubs here and there and you’re renting out
Berlusconi by the Sea. Think of what you can do with a good looking young piece
in a Static that you can’t do with your wife in a Mobile and now you’re talking
banking executive bonuses!
Statics are static. They are not going
anywhere and neither mostly are you. You’re there for the fantastic view and
maybe a short drive into the village. Some time at the pub with your piece
before driving back up the rough road with moonlight over the sea to your
tucked away corner of paradise. Your wife thinks you’re away on business but we
know the truth. You’re in the static home business all right only it’s not what
she imagines!
There’s one thing about a camping holiday
though that connects all the different kinds of accommodation and all social classes and that is the
beach. Many sites are close to the sea, sandy beaches and swimming. It’s one of
the main reasons you’re there. When the sun’s out and the sky’s blue you’re in
the water for a fair time doing something or other. It could be pissing or
paddling, fooling about on a plastic boat or playing with a ball Whatever the
case and no matter who you are you’re just having fun. It’s a longing, an
essential part of the human condition that cuts all the way across the social
classes. Everyone wants to have fun and the beach near the camp site is the
perfect place. The only pressure on you there is the tide and the only worry
the weather. You can either splash around, watch the kids making sandcastles or
try and catch fish. It’s either that or boil up in the heat. Everything’s free
down on that beach and everyone’s equal. It’s about the only time and place in
their lives when everyone’s the same as everyone else. It’s a kind of place
outside reality where all men and women, whoever and whatever they are in that
time and place are equal. A place of happy enchantment. In essence a fantasy
that actually becomes a temporary reality. That’s why everyone’s so happy on
beaches. They’re all living the once a year dream, a place where nothing matters
except having a good time. Something you can’t do whenever you please when
you’re back home.
The beach then is a universal equalizer that
all kinds of camper can share. It’s a precious almost holy place of happy
fantasy. Another world that you enter the moment you step on the sand. Why do
you feel so happy, so liberated and free? It’s because you’re no longer a
hostage to anyone’s fortune. You’re a free being! But you’re only allowed this
two or three weeks a year. Just a taster. Like a reminder of something ancient.
Like some kind of Garden of Eden. A time when all people were decent, pure,
uncorrupted… A state of being that died, but all the same, just once a year for
a time, on that golden sand your thoughts can run free. Maybe that’s why you
feel happy being there. Your senses are captivated and liberated. It’s a
fantasy you’ve paid for with a year of hard work. Whether you’re under a tent
or living in an ultra-modern ultra-expensive tin box you’re all sharing the
same residual dream down there on the sand. The joy of freedom that historical
time and evolution relegated to the back of your brain. Don’t worry, it hasn’t
gone away. It’s still there waiting to come out once a year as a universally
shared joy.
Can you remember ever feeling angry on a beach
or resentful of anyone. It’s magical when it’s warm and strange when it turns
windy or rains. Something that threatens the idyll of Eden!
So there you all are, happy campers.
Enjoying the sandy idyll that’s soon to end when you leave and get back to the
campsite. Suddenly reality returns in a flash but not yet, not yet! You’re
still full of the golden haze of sun and sand that’s not quite out of your
mind. You’re moving from one world to another. From the fantasy you’ve
travelled down the motorway for to the reality where you’ve pitched up and what
you’ve pitched up in. Never mind, there’s always tomorrow! Meanwhile you’re a
traveller between both, between the beach and the campsite. Between a great
liberating relaxed feeling of joy that though you don’t know it comes from deep
out of our biological past and the reality that we created for ourselves over
millions of years of historical time. And when you leave and go home you’ll
take them both with you, the beach and the site. You really won’t know why you
loved being there. You’ll call it a change of scene, much needed, maybe a
challenge. It’s all different in a way if it’s pelting with rain. You don’t
walk the beach do you? Well maybe you should try. You’ll find doing it
something real special!
You may go home. Return to the old worries,
anxieties and traumas, but somehow they’re not quite the same. That’s because
you’re not quite the same either. Somehow those old golden moments of Eden are
still there in your head so everything strangely feels brighter.
THAT’S
YOUR CAMPING HOLIDAY, WITH ITS BRIGHT SUNSHINE AND GOLDEN BEACH DOING THE
TALKING!
_________________________
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