The Whole Tooth with Katherine Rees - George and the happy campers

After a fleeting conversation some weeks ago about recapturing the spontaneity that inevitably fades with children, jobs, mortgages and the like, the decision was taken to embrace our free spirits and rent a campervan. Granted, there are other things that may more adequately embrace the free-spirit than driving up the M6 at 50mph in a van just a whisper bigger than our family car, but it’s a start. I had pictured a large white Winnebago type arrangement with cookers, toilets, comfortable beds; in fact if I’m really honest, I was thinking megastar trailer truck with separate bedrooms. We have three boys who tend to leave strange odours if contained in a small space.

I was therefore surprised to find we were the proud renters of a four berth VW for the bank holiday weekend and that a camp site had been booked – in North Yorkshire. I’m not sure what it is about VW owners and their desire to name their vans, the naming of inanimate objects is guaranteed to make me cringe; but I took one for the team and tried to look enthusiastic at the photos of ‘George’, our home for five days.

A brief glance at the weather forecast seemed to indicate there would be little need for bikinis and sun cream and we set off with the van packed to the rafters, three kids in the back and the mid life crisis in full swing. The first thing to note is that despite this van (I still can’t bring myself to call it George) being only two years old, it drove like it was from the early 50’s. No need for a gym session, just trying to get the thing around a corner was an upper body workout. If you looked carefully, the road was visible between the pedals and there were rattles from every conceivable nook. What I wasn’t prepared for was the amount of attention we would attract; everywhere we went we were flashed, hooted or waved at.

Within minutes, I had totally bought into the idea of the cramped style-over-substance VW, aided in part by the on-loop rendition of Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again. There’s something about those funny little vans that just makes you smile, and even though we clocked up an average speed that would barely give a milk float a run for it’s money, our six-hour journey flew by.

Being from Essex, anywhere north of Birmingham is pretty much unchartered territory. Arriving at our spit and sawdust campsite on the outskirts of Pickering, we were faced with a field full of hardy Yorkshire professional campers.

Now I spent many lovely weeks as a small child shoe-horned into a five berth caravan with my parents and four siblings and I don’t have the caravan snobbery that afflicts vast swathes of the home counties, but I’m sure I saw some wry smiles and raised eyebrows as we parked up ‘George’. After taking the meaning of humiliation to a whole new level by attempting to pitch the awning like a family of total incompetent numpties, I decided to turn the van into something resembling a hybrid of a Cath Kidston showroom and a UKIP campaign bus with the subtle embellishment of floral bunting, scented candles and more Union Jack branding than you’d think possible. Sleeping was a challenge. Two children in the pop top and one left to nestle/writhe between us in an area a little wider than a single bed. I had wondered whether the van was leaking but was reassured that it was just the said child with a slightly leaky bladder. Joy oh joy. It’s fair to say, these vans are not big and not designed for a family larger than two who want to still be talking to each other after a 24-hour period but despite that we had a blast.

After five days, we reluctantly delivered the van back to his real parents in Banbury and so the search for the perfect addition to our family has begun. If we get fed up with waking literally at first light with each others feet in our faces, I could always turn it into a mobile dental surgery.. we’ll HAVE to name it though. Suggestions on a postcard please?