Caravan
Caravan
In the early summer of 1972, my dad made a decision which would have a profound impact on our family life; He decided to buy a caravan. The decision was spurred no doubt by the events of our earlier camping holiday to the Lake District that year, or the ‘Easter Uprising’ as I like to call it. Much of the detail has been erased from my memory, (Trauma?) but essentially a huge storm blew up in the night, and almost took our tent, and us with it. Picture the scene from Wizard of Oz where Dorothy’s house is picked up by the Twister and carried far from Kansas, but replace the house with a 5 person family Tent ( called I believe rather optimistically “Weathermaster”.) and you won’t be too far off. I have vague recollections of my mum clinging to a tent pole while my sisters and I cowered in a corner. My dad ran around outside in the howling wind and rain with a mallet desperately trying to hammer in more pegs and shore up the fly sheet which was flapping around like a banshee. Suddenly a whole corner of the tent lifted, and we seemed to be about to take flight. “Ted, TED!’ I can’t hold it!” mum screamed! My dad poked through the front flap looking every bit as deranged as Jack Nicholson in the Shining but considerably wetter ( and holding a mallet not an axe.) My mums face was wet too, but I don’t know if that was rain or tears. Quickly assessing the imminent danger of ‘Lift Off’ he screamed instructions at us his wimpering offspring; Myles ( 8) “Get over in that corner! Quick! , Jackie (6) Over there!, Debi ( 18 months) Stay there!” ( I don’t think she could have moved even if she understood.). Then he disappeared back through the flap to redouble his manic hammering.