This week, another meander off-topic. Well off-topic. Although it does have a very tenuous link to chickens. But, I stress, very tenuous.
Anyhoo, you may remember (and it really doesn’t matter if you don’t, because like all columnists, I do tend to repeat myself because, like all columnists, I have a short memory and an even shorter repertoire. This is because all columnists are super-smart, and have brains positively fizzing with stuff – not much of it suitable for publication, sadly – and I also have the extra excuse that I am a mum. And like all mums, I have a brain fizzing with stuff, most of it once useful, but now addled from years of talking CBeebies-ese. I’m also going for a Guinness World Record in the use of parentheses) that our tent had been sold at the start of the year, and that there was talk of a caravan.
As a smallholder, I should really be knocking up my own Mongolian yurt out of sail canvas and Blu-Tak, and decorating it with home-made bunting. However, buying a caravan seemed a slightly less arduous way forward, and a much more mobile option. So the decision was made. The camping trailer must go, and a caravan must be bought.
An impending trip to visit Cousin Callum on the Isle of Mull with our mutt pack and the YMs sharpened our desire for said caravan. Cousin Callum and his wife, the lovely Jackie, run an immaculate B&B, and we decided that they would be better off if we didn’t rampage through their house, coating it in mud and dog hair, and destroying it over the course of a long weekend.
We could take a caravan on the ferry and we could be somewhere nearby, without imposing.
So the search was on, and an old – but very reasonably priced – caravan was spotted. The drawback? It was Doon Sooth in sunny Donny. Ah, Doncaster, home to the famous racecourse and possibly the most windswept, desolate train station in the north of England (in my opinion, based on my experiences as a student in London travelling home late at night in the holibags).
With the skoolio holibags about to finish, I thought it might be fun to go on one last road trip with the YMs. Down to Donny, buy the caravan, then an overnight en route before coming home the next day. Great excitement!
So off we went, with number plate, leisure battery and Porta Potty slung in the back of the pick-up.
Off we went down the A1. Many years later (or so it seemed due to the endless contra-flow) we arrived at the lovely Georgina’s house, and about half an hour later we were back on the road with our new (very old) caravan. It seemed only fitting that we should call her Georgina, in honour of the lady herself, who had enjoyed more than 30 years of happy touring with her late husband in the ’van.
So far, so good. Georgina has been such a hit with the YMs that they opted to spend a second night in her, on the drive, plugged into the workshop electrics. And this weekend they are determined to sleep in her again. All weekend.
And the tenuous link to chooks? Mr E says that if Georgina is no good as a caravan, she’ll make a good chicken shed. Gulp.