Our caravanning experiences started in the late fifties when dear father felt the need for the open road and running water. The answer was obvious and the decision made.
Father had been a volunteer in Word War II and had returned, thankfully physically unhurt, but of course emotionally scarred. After the war he joined the family corn merchants’ of Robert Ostler in Boston in partnership with his two brothers.
Holidays weren’t thought of at that time and I’m not even sure Mum was consulted about our forthcoming caravan holiday. But my sister, Lis and I remember going to a garage to pick up a Bluebird caravan. Father had hired it for a week, so we paid the money and towed it back home to pack up. Great excitement!
Mum wrapped all of the plates and bowls up in paper and stowed them under a bunk. I think we helped in our own sort of way. I’m not sure Mum would have agreed. Blankets and sheets, saucepans and cutlery all had to be packed under the bunks; there were no top cupboards in those days. A gas cylinder was needed for the two-ringed burner and grill and also for the gas mantles that provided the lights. Two metal water carriers were also packed and most important of all, fly fishing rods. And we were off. To Scotland. “Poop, Poop, the open road” sang Father.
Whenever we met another caravan, which was very rare, we all waved to each other.
The toilet facilities were very basic. A hole in the ground was quickly superseded by Mum’s homemade privy. More about that next time!