Diary of an urban Grandad

JUST got back from a holiday in Torquay, that oasis of sun, sea and soggy sand. Sitting quietly on the Devonshire coast, with a mild micro climate, more cute coves than you can shake a crabstick at, and right in the middle of a perfectly pretty part of the world. Which explains why it is known as the English Riviera. Though you have to ask if the person who came up with the name had ever actually been to the French Riviera. Either way, our stay was fab. But don’t think I’m boasting. Not at all. Far from it. Let me explain.

This sort of break would not be everyone’s cup of tea. It requires a special type of soul to enjoy this sort of thing. You see, we were staying in a static caravan, on a site with 167 other static caravans. All crammed together in an area that would just about cover two large football pitches.

You get the picture. Luxurious and decadent it was not. Nor was it the most comfortable of accommodation. In fact, some people would have seen our time away as more of a punishment to be endured than a holiday to be enjoyed. But the truth is, Mrs Cullimore and I were in paradise. Had a whale of a time. It was heaven on legs. Caravan legs. In a super static sort of way. The dogs seemed very happy too. Wagging tails and satisfied snores were the order of the day. All day, every day.

Point is, we had a marvellous time. Trouble is, I made the mistake of telling various friends and family where we were staying we were down there. Not going to lie, from the feedback, it seems that caravans have got themselves a reputation. And not a very good one. Cruel comments, snide remarks and sniggers filled the various inboxes on my social media sites.

You see, for a lot of people, all the stuff I mentioned above; being crammed in with hundreds of other identical units, living in a metal box, hanging out in the world of caravanners. Well, those are seen as bad things. Whereas for Mrs Cullimore and I that is just not the case. We both grew up in families where caravan holidays were the best thing since sliced bread. The poshest pastime ever.

In my case, our first family holidays were in soggy tents in Scotland. One of my strongest childhood memories is of holding onto our tent as it flew across a field in the rain, because my older brothers had failed to hammer the tent pegs in deep enough. When my parents finally upgraded to a tiny caravan of our very own, my young heart nearly burst with joy. Six of us went off in this glorified baked bean can every summer. My parents, my brothers and I, plus dog. All of us crammed into a metal box six foot by ten. I slept on a hammock over my parents bed, the dog slept under it. When it rained, as it usually did, my nose was just inches away from the roof, which echoed to the sound of hammering raindrops. Being tucked up warm and dry with the whole family was the closest thing to heaven I could ever imagine.

Now we are back safe and sound in Bristol, the sixty four thousand dollar question is simple. Did we learn anything useful on our wonderful week away? Hmm. Think so. Seems that, for us, the things happening outside your head aren’t actually as important as the things going on inside it.

The way you react to stuff is even more important than the stuff itself. Which is always good to know, especially at times like these.