The brochure read, “Set amid the forest that adorns the coast, is a delightful, well-run family campsite with excellent facilities. Relaxing is easy here; most of our ‘emplacements’ are surrounded by hedges, offering privacy and shade from the hot sun.” We arrive in the pouring rain to be greeted by a very large yellow sunshine sign saying, “Welcome”. As we check in, the French receptionist is certainly not smiling. She abruptly tells us we have parked in the wrong place and then sets about listing out the rules of the campsite. We nervously drive down a dusty track towards our pitch, under the gaze of rows of campers, sitting under their umbrellas in psychedelic waterproofs. At the end of the now rather slushy muddy cul-de-sac, we reach our chalet. We sit in the car for a few moments waiting for the downpour to subside, glancing around us searching for the supposed hedges. The Toddler waves at two children looking out of the window of the next door caravan, hopeful that he might make some playmates. The curtains twitch and the faces quickly disappear.
Now realizing that the rain was here to stay, we begin unpacking the car and in true British style flick on the kettle in the hope that a nice cup of tea might brighten things up a bit. The rain relentlessly pours and in the absence of any coats, I am suddenly struck by a claustrophobic panic. Sensing this, the boys launch into hyperactive puppy mode and embark on a very loud machine gun game around our ‘cabin’. My husband flicks on the kettle again and reassures me that after a good night’s sleep, we will all wake up to brilliant sunshine.
That evening we sit around eating the remnants of the previous chalet’s fridge and embark on a game of Scrabble, allowing for ‘sounding out’ words, of course. As night falls, the music begins. It soon becomes obvious that we are positioned close to the bar and are about to endure hours of karaoke. Here we are lying in a caravan at 2am being kept awake by some drunk man singing ‘Eye of The Tiger’, when we could be enjoying the peace and quiet of rural Dorset. My husband desperately talks me out of marching down to the bar in my pyjamas and launching into a psychotic rant on the dance floor. A few hours later, I awake to a loud roaring noise and a distinctly unpleasant smell. Drawing back the curtains, I come face-to-face with an enormous dustcart emptying large wheelie bins into its great roaring jaws, just yards from our chalet. “That’s it,” said my husband reaching for his mobile. “We’re going home.”
