Dotty

When my cousin first heard we would be camping in the very same county where she lives, it was a foregone conclusion that we would meet up. Layla-girl, her mother (my Aunty Cal), and I enjoy a rare and special relationship. Aunty Cal is only 9 years older than me – so is more of a big sister to me. Layla-girl is 19 years younger than me, but feels like my little sister. The three of us are much greater than the sum of our parts.
We decided that we would meet up on Sunday, the day before we left so that Layla-girl’s husband, the lovely Mr Chris could come along as well as their little boy Jamie. We planned a carefree hot day on the beach with Daddies playing football with little boys and we two relaxing on the sands catching up on all our news…
On Friday it rained.
On Saturday it rained.
On Sunday morning it rained.
We were due to meet at 11am. At 10am we exchanged frantic text messages debating Plan A, Plan B, Plan C…..?
At 10.30 am Mr Dotty opened up the flap of the tipi where I was huddled over the woodburning stove. ‘Come out here, quickly’ he whispered: ‘there’s something you should see.’ I peered through the mist – a deer, perhaps? We drove from Scotland to Scarborough to see a deer?! ‘No – look UP’. Oh dear: was Mr Dotty having a moment? Had Wee1 converted him to his own very special brand of Evangelical Monotheism? No… what Mr Dotty had spotted, through the mist, the drizzle and the heavy all-enveloping cloud was a pin-prick of white light. The SUN!!!!!!!!!!!
We hugged, we kissed, we threw caution to the wind and settled on Plan A.
The God(s), the Universe, Karma – it was all with us. After that tiny inauspicious start the sun came out, if not in force, then it was certainly a welcome and brave attempt. Layla-girl had dragged along the lovely Aunty Cal: we were happy campers indeed. Once we had done a tour of all the tipis, congratulating ourselves that we had indeed bagged the very best one, we drove off to the seaside.
Aunty Cal linked my arm in hers and with a purposeful stride announced: ‘Last to find the Crab Claws is a cissy!’. The Daddies gazed wistfully at the pub doors and were dragged unceremoniously away. Layla-girl (3 months pregnant) announced that she had a need for prawns NOW, and so we split into two groups: a fish and chip posse and a seafood posse: both would meet on the beach.

The prawns were no problem, we saw winkles and fell over ourselves giggling, nearly bought some to tease the Wees with, but then saw the price! When I was a girl they were 25p for a huge paper bag – today they are £2.35 for a miserly little polystyrene tray. The giggle disappeared into the sea air. We saw no Crab Claws on display… but then I spotted them: the most enormous bag you could ever imagine: as big as a supermarket carrier bag, for £6. ‘Shall we share?’ ”Oh YES!!’
Down on the beach, the Wees and the Daddies munched their fish and chips, Layla-girl finished her second tray of prawns and sat very still trying to convince herself that her morning sickness had indeed subsided as she had predicted, and Aunty Cal and I tore into our feast with gusto. Then we hit a problem. Quite a big problem. All the Crab Claws were big monster toe-pinching claws… not the little break-with-your-teeth and spend many happy minutes sucking a microgram of meat out of. Did we have a hammer; a nut cracker; a Swiss army knife; a grenade? No: we had two quite small jaws that were not quite up to the job. We bent them this way, we bent them that way, we even hit one against Mr Dotty’s head – but they would not yield… apart from one: the runt in the pack.

I happily gave up my vegetarianism for that one mouthful of sweet rosy flesh. Aunty Cal, as much as I loved her, went hungry.

By this time the Wees were running this way and that, building sandcastles, destroying them, chasing, catching, getting utterly drenched and caked in sand and having the time of their lives. They found a mini lagoon in an indent near the sea wall and it might just as well have been the most glorious infinity pool facing an azure Carribean sea: they were in heaven. It was an unmitigated joy: the companionship of family with an intertwined and interlocking history of support, husbands who have managed to find their own place within that unchartered structure, and a new generation just old enough to start playing together and to see where they come from.

And – just to cap it all – the fourth generation of our family (that we have photographic evidence of, anyway) rode their first Scarborough Donkeys.

Sentimental? Yes – unashamedly.

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Considering that we were camping in a pre-erected tent (or tipi) which came with bed bases for all of us, the preparations for our departure involved an awful lot of shopping. We were very lucky in that we borrowed a gas camping stove from my friend Imogen, who is far too near giving birth to her third child to be even contemplating camping this year (or next, I imagine!). The Wees already have sleeping bags, and I decided that I was far too old for wriggling around in a nylon sack, and our own duvet, with white cotton cover and matching pillowcases would be packed. This may seem a little over-the-top to you, but I assure you that this is nothing compared to the camping habits of my darling sister-in-law who packed white linen tablecloths, candelabra, silver and insisted that we all dine Black Tie. We even had a very jolly man come by and light the ‘donkey’, which was a rather Heath Robinson contraption that heated the water for our individual showers under the Namibian skies. However, I digress…. but you will soon find out why Namibian camping s-i-l style is such an easy reminiscence to fall into…

Shopping: we had to buy a dinky kettle (early morning cup of tea is non-negotiable, anywhere in the world), cheap cutlery, plastic plates and bowls, a barbecue, a picnic rug, camping chairs… the trolley filled at exponential speed. Where was this cheap holiday?

Early on Friday morning we gathered ourselves, enjoyed our last hot shower, I dried my hair and tried not to think about the forthcoming lack of electricity, and packed. And packed. And packed. And unpacked Wees ‘essentials’. And packed. By lunchtime (2 hours late) we were ready to set off. After a glorious week the mist started to descend over our lovely mountains and we rubbed our hands with glee, thinking we were going to leave the bad weather behind.

How wrong we were… a 4-hour journey turned into a 6-hour journey, crawling through mist and drizzle so dense we had to use fog lights. The Wees were amazing: apart from the not-quite-so-soon as 1 minute into the journey ‘how long till we get there?’, they were darlings, watching the world go by. In one town, Wee1, who constantly delights himself with his newly-acquired reading ability, passed the time reading traffic signs and shop names. ‘T; E; S; C; O: Mummy – there’s another shop called Tesco!!!‘ Yes, darling, I said… ‘Wow – does that mean there are TWO Tescos in this world?‘ If only, I thought….!

Eventually we arrived and were met by the loveliest, kindest, most helpful man imaginable. He directed us to the Tipi field (as yet out of sight) and as we drove in there was the most exuberant, heartfelt and unanimous ‘WOW!!!’. Suddenly the rain did not matter one jot.

The Wees ran barefoot through cold wet grass, we unpacked the car and lit the tiny but effective wood-burning stove and settled in for the family holiday of a lifetime.

We ran out of dry clothes; we ran out of dry bedding (Wee2 found the whole thing rather too exciting); we lived off takeaway food supplemented by local strawberries for 2 days (the barbecue would NOT light); we trudged through rain and mud to shower and to get fresh drinking water; and we would do it all again: maybe not tomorrow, but next year without doubt!

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We are going on holiday. This in itself is a Big Thing. At the risk of sounding pitiable and needy (which we emphatically are not!) we do not have the money to spend on holidays. However, a combination of factors led us to take the decision that a break away is just what this family needs.
My brief was to find somewhere cheap, that we would all enjoy and that wasn’t too far away – long journeys and Wees just aren’t the best combination. I also wanted to find somewhere that would give us a taste of real camping before we started thinking about how we could buy our own tent, just in case it was an unmitigated never-to-be-repeated disaster.
I had heard that Eurocamp, famous for their pre-erected and furnished tents in France had come over to the UK, but their sites seemed somehow dreary and half-hearted. They are also jolly steep. However, I now had the bit between my teeth and I marched on with Google by my side… and then I came across THIS
Who could possible resist? To further cement the deal (which was SO done by now anyway), the site is one mile from Scarborough – one mile from winkles, crab claws, fish & chips, bucket & spades, donkey rides, sea, sand, soggy sandwiches: everything! There is a little wood-burning stove in the tipi, the charges are the same all year round (these are ethical people!), children are free, dogs are free, you can rent a gas stove from them, they have a green philosophy – I could go on… but you know the best thing of all: they are SO friendly and I just know we are going to have the best 3 nights of our lives… and Wee2 can just roll around the tipi – he won’t even have to get up to bed-hop!

Anyway – here is the link to the lovely Pinewood Holiday Park (which sounds horribly like a Haven Holiday Park – but is quite very much not!)

http://www.pinewood-holiday-park.co.uk/1173.html

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