Where it all started...

The year was around 1969: I remember, as a child, being hustled into the rear bench seat of the family Zephyr 6, a huge red vinyl thing (the seat, not the Ford, which was Purbeck Grey!) with my three sisters, and told we were going to the seaside.

Inevitably I would lay along the rear parcel shelf away from the constant fighting and elbowing, while my father occasionally swore at other drivers while mother tutted as he taught me lots of 'new' words, and I always remember the weather would turn from fair to raining every time we arrived at what appeared to be a slightly moist, occasionally muddy field with our Caravan in tow.

I remember the car and caravan well, after spending what appeared to be days driving from Watford to Devon or Cornwall, I remember the solid click of the  foot operated headlamp dip switch, from the times it was my turn on the centre of the front bench seat, the strip speedometer and the column gear change which made no sense at all to a six year old.

I also remember the Sprite Musketeer
caravan, which had a 'step' in the roofline, promising something special within, and exposed gas cylinders on the front 'A' frame, not tucked away in lockers like modern ones.

Inside, even then, I realised the interior was a rather garishly trimmed affair made from what appeared to be modelling wood and old pub curtains. A single tap splurted cold water when you pressed the rubber floor pedal, the gas lights had magical 'mantles' which glowed between Blue and Orange whilst creating a dangerous but undoubdtedly rather evocative mood once nightime fell and the rain eventually stopped.

It was exciting, adventurous but ultimately a little bit shit, as we had no heating, TV or flushing toilet, it was crowded, flimsy and damp.

So why would anybody ever want to go away in a Caravan ever again!?