I do like a tad of risk in my life, yet in matters of comfort, security, and wellbeing I am pretty one dimensional – I like what I like and in true Margaret Thatcher style, “this guy is not for turning.” In relation to holidays, the late British Premier (from 1979 to 1990) had little appetite for such jollies, describing them, according to biographer Charles Moore, as chores, and an unwelcome interruption from running the country. This is where Mrs T and I diverge since I do love holidays! A degree of luxury accommodation is non-negotiable (3-star plus), and I like to have convenient access to a hot running shower, a comfy bed and a decent karzi on which I can sit in elegant comfort as I contemplate life. Warmth is essential too. I don’t do cold.
Camping in the scouts when I was about ten scarred me for life. I had to keep one eye open for the spiders and it was cold. Fucking cold! Later in life when money was tight, with two young kids, we booked a caravan in Fleetwood, north of England’s answer to Las Vegas – Blackpool. On reflection, it was probably more of a mobile home. Every time the kids jumped on the bed at the far end the television rocked at the other. Flushing the chemical toilet, especially at night, replicated the sound of a German WWII V1 rocket descending upon London and the cistern whined like a spoilt brat for what seemed an eternity. When I got flush with the cash, I promised myself I would never rough it in the outdoors again. I religiously booked hotels whenever I stayed away and was happy with this sound decision. Then I had one of those conversations. You know – the ones where you casually commit to something but know it will never materialise. Like when you are on holiday and you meet someone, usually with whom you have nothing in common, in some far-flung place and say, “If you are ever passing be sure to look me up.” As if! This is no more than caustic courtesy, although to be fair, I was being serious with that topless dancer I met in Amsterdam in 2011.
To say I was surprised that I ended up in a caravan and sleeping in an awning attached to the side of it for three nights is an understatement of biblical proportions. An off-the-cuff pledge was turned into reality by subtle, repetitive persuasion, by a third party we shall codename simply ‘Paul’ (because that is his name), in a manner the CIA would be proud of in their pursuit of psychological torture techniques.
The destination for this trip of terror was North Wales. To be precise, Morfa Nefyn – sounding very much like a buxom barmaid I once met in a bar in Cwmbran on a police course. My mind wandered – then I remembered some of her tattoos and the fact that she had bigger biceps than me and, come to think of it, a deeper voice – I quickly refocused. Due south of Anglesey, this road trip would be around five hours, however I did have a little bit of an incentive since Notts County were away at Wrexham, two hours due east on the last day of my jaunt. As I closed in on my destination, my tongue became bruised as I attempted to pronounce the names of the villages and towns I passed through, the front doors of some houses often opening directly onto the carriageway. The Welsh language always seemed like a secret code to me although I was proud to cite my only fragment of native communication – “popty ping” – otherwise known as a microwave across the Welsh border. Aside from this, the beauty of North Wales was intoxicating, invigorating and incredible.
Driving along a road which would have been classified as a path back home, the expanse of the farm housing the tidy caravan site suddenly erupted around me, with the dominant yet beautiful Craig y Garreg-lwyd ridge capturing the natural splendour of this pocket of paradise. Having geared myself up to be a grumpy git on steroids I was beginning to feel confused. This puzzling posture continued upon entering the awning – it was pleasantly warm and inviting – had I got this all wrong? Having a drink at the Ty Coch Inn, not to be confused with a fetish club of a similar name in Soho, I looked across the bay and wondered how this could be spoilt. The effort still required to set up the sleeping arrangements had not yet dawned on me!
I pumped, pushed, and sweated hard until I got it erect. No, I wasn’t back in Soho but had just finished putting up the air bed. This sudden adrenalin rush didn’t hide the ominous fact that the interior of the awning was now decidedly chilly. The offer of a one bar electric portable heater was as effective as an ashtray on a motorcycle, and I was quickly recapturing my grouchy guise. With my well recorded aversion to the cold and taking no unnecessary risks I kept most of my clothes on, including a gilet. Zipping up the Arctic rated sleeping bag and pulling the duvet past my ears I had more layers on than Tutankhamun.
Somewhat surprisingly I drifted off reasonably quickly. Having had copious amounts of alcohol and reaching an operating temperature of a jacuzzi at full pelt helped, although the inevitable happened at 5:30am – I needed a pee. Since it was Paul’s caravan, and he was celebrating his anniversary with his missus I had been briefed about the communal toilet block some five minutes or so walk from my present location. Even if I had managed to skilfully enter the caravan undetected there is no way on earth I would ever have been able to quell the chronic symphony of the chemical loo. I was minded to simply piss in the nearest bush, however the military briefing I had received only hours beforehand rang in my consciousness, despite only feeling around thirty percent awake. I didn’t buy the CCTV warning and considered this no more than a campsite myth that sought to prevent errant guests from peeing on their solar lights. Nevertheless, given my usual aim I grudgingly unzipped the awning and ventured out into the dark.
To my surprise the experience wasn’t that awful, and once I had finished the task and rolled my Hampton back into my jogging bottoms, I commenced the walk back. Dawn was breaking and the ridge was silhouetted against the most exquisite amber light. Other than a couple of hoots from an owl the silence was deafening. For the first time in many years, I noticed my surroundings. A simple yet incredibly uplifting moment. My mind was clear of the shite I had left behind and for a precious moment all that was wrong in the world simply drained away. I noticed that the sheep in the adjoining field appeared to be asleep with their heads bolt upright. But then, I was in Wales!
I managed to get a few more hours sleep in my homemade sarcophagus before I was back in the ablutions block for my morning shave and shower. The awkward moment came when a fella left the karzi after parking his breakfast, to see me having a shave in the only sink. With foam all over my face and head I guess he thought I was either Father Christmas or a Kenny Rogers tribute act. He nodded and exited without washing his hands, looking terrified.
Visiting the nearby coast, I could have been in any number of exotic foreign locations. The sun was out, the sand was warm and golden, and the sky was clear blue and calm. It was simply idyllic. I then understood why a caravan was better than a motorhome. You could leave the former and explore further afield by car. The latter would have been a right bastard to navigate around the maze of narrow country lanes and land in the often-cramped carparks. Back at basecamp I enjoyed an alfresco meal cooked on the George Foreman grill. This monster had fucking wheels and a massive drip tray that collected all the usual shite and corruption associated with cooking meat! It tasted stellar too.
A late-night stroll to the loo, to lessen the likelihood of extricating myself from the giant condom of a sleeping bag in a hurry and repeating the mantra “you won’t piss your pants” made me gape in awe. The clear night sky, accentuated by the total absence of light pollution, gave up the stars. The wonder that is space was utterly phenomenal. I knew where the “Big Dipper” was, but I guessed some of the others. Was that “Orion’s belt”? Did I even have my trousers on? I was totally engrossed in the pure spectacle, and I could have spent the night simply gazing in wonderment. But remember, this was Wales and at night it was fucking freezing!
In the morning I awoke at a more reasonable time. As stiff as an ironing board I blinked and scrunched my eyelids. The intensity of the light streaming through the plastic windows, with the linen curtains just for show, made the inside of the awning resemble the location of the first US nuclear test site near Alamogordo, New Mexico. Or was it in fact the second coming of Christ? I shuffled off to perform the morning rituals and met a new bloke in the toilets. He was far chattier, and my foam appearance didn’t seem to spook him in the slightest. This outdoor living was playing havoc with my digestive system and subsequently I blocked the loo. I was beginning to think that I needed an emergency KFC for rebalancing. After four flushes I defeated the troublesome turd, left the cubicle and bumped into the same fella. This constituted a whole new take on the line, “Meet me at your convenience.”
Packing up before heading to the wild west of Wrexham I reflected upon my unusual getaway experience. There was a powerful reconnection with the simple things – talking, observing, laughing, and with little or no internet connection either. I became aware of other things like a family playing rounders. I hadn’t played that since I was at secondary school, and I was bloody good at it! Had my slavish association with hotels robbed me of something? I continued to ponder this as I edged back towards civilisation.
The big match was a tense affair with Notts securing a creditable one all draw against the big spending Welsh side, who had recently become part-owned by the Hollywood actor Ryan Reynolds. Other than a mutual love of gin, Ryan and I had little in common although how would I explain my ultimate verdict on a very British conundrum to a Canadian multi-millionaire who had bought a non-league football club? Then it struck me –
The Great Holiday Play-Off Final result:
Caravans 3 v Hotels 3 (after extra time, Hotels win 5-4 on penalties)
© Ian Kirke 2021 & all photographs