Last Sunday afternoon, as the boxer shorts I’d worn all camping weekend walked themselves to my laundry basket, yours truly hopped into an invigorating shower.
Despite being piping hot, and receiving able assistance from a fragrant shower gel, the water’s mission of relieving me of three-day old grime proved a challenge. Mercifully, though, due to the H2O’s sterling efforts and vigorous scrubbing on my part I eventually got clean without the torture of reaching for the Brillo pads.
The opening two paragraphs of this missive perhaps leading you to wonder what I see in trips away in my campervan. Upon reading the prose, you possibly deeming tales of my lax grooming enough to put you off camping for life.
However, in candour, last weekend’s poor cleanliness regime was totally self-inflicted. After all, the South Yorkshire venue where partner Sarah and I stayed possessed fully equipped shower and toilet facilities. For some reason, though, I spent my birthday weekend in the great outdoors feeling neither the need nor desire to utilise said bathrooms; well, for washing anyhow… A cleanliness regime I do not follow at home I hasten to add!
I’d also like to point out I didn’t travel with just one pair of undies: my luggage bag containing at least another three pairs. A trio of shreddies who no doubt was relieved they avoided being adjacent to my backside for three days/two nights. My crime against underwear undertaken for no other reason than laziness.
As I crowbarred off the pair I’d worn all weekend, prior to climbing into my apartment shower on Sunday, I’m sure I heard sighs of relief from those three unworn pair of undies in my luggage bag. Satisfaction borne from avoiding similar trauma to the hapless three day worn boxers gasping for air in the laundry basket… As I write these words I am just relieved that social services don’t cover underwear mistreatment, or mine would be getting rehoused!
Churchill may have summed up my shorts’ stoicism and bravery by exclaiming “Never in the field of underwear conflict has so much been owed by so many to one pair of undies.”…
Footnote – Incidentally that’s Winston Churchill, not Winston the insurance company dog mascot.
Despite me turning into Stig of the Dump for the weekend, Sarah and I had a great weekend at the Dubbed-Out Community festival, at Hooton Lodge Farm. Although, on her part that was probably helped by the fact she was sitting/standing upwind from me for most of it.
Seriously, though, a few days of sunshine, dance, beer, and shared camaraderie with a bunch of fellow VW campervan owners proved a heady brew. Raising our spirits flattened by the strong winds during our last camping trip to the Peak District.
Those weather conditions causing us to abandon the break a day early and (after other unpleasant trips) serious considerations about selling my van. Misguidedly abandoning thoughts of any breaks away in the great outdoors. We only really going on the Dubbed Out fest because we’d already booked it.
However, mercifully the Hooton Lodge Farm trip taught us both we do still love the van lifestyle; admitted, though, firmly as fair-weather camper from this juncture. The sojourn also reminded me that given a fair wind, sunshine, beer, dancing, good company and your own portaloo, festival life is the best.
These events attended by fellow VW campervan owners affording them opportunity to ‘show off’ their various models, along with a plethora of camping accessories and festival flags.
These colourful, sometime ingenuously kitted out, motorhomes parked in rows on the periphery of the festival field inspiring ideas for the next accessory. For instance, after spotting a fellow camper with a portable firepit this weekend, I ordered one on our return… A much more useful purchase than Sarah’s recent hare-brained idea of buying a paper shredder and t-shirt cannon for our awning!
The only downside to the weekend was a brief period when we couldn’t find the van key on Friday night. Unbeknown to me it had dropped out of my pocket late that evening when drunkenly pulling out the vans bed. The key wedging between the seats which when lowered make up the bed.
Luckily, a piece of Poirotesque detective work by yours truly saved the day. Me realising overnight it was unusual for the van to occasionally lock and unlock when moving around the bed; eventually deducing the missing item must be jammed somewhere within the seat/bed mechanism. A theory which proved correct when investigating in next day’s daylight.
Anyhow, I’m gonna bring this narrative to a close as a courier delivering my portable firepit is at the door, and I need to put those poor undies on a fourth wash!!
Thanks to the organisers of the Dubbed-Out Community, whose splendid festival re-invigorated my love for campervan weekends away… Here’s to the next one.
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