Ah, the joys of owning a motorhome, or as we like to call ours, “Happy Little Place” — because it’s going to always be a happy place with good memories, but also because the number plate ends in HLP. This trip was supposed to be a magical experience, a much-needed getaway, and the beginning of a new chapter for my wife and me. After months of stress — especially after my father’s passing and the subsequent brotherly inheritance skirmishes — we had every intention of moving forward with our lives. We didn’t realise the “moving” would involve less peace and more trial by motorhome fire.
The Pre-Trip Meltdown
Let me set the stage for you. My father had passed a month prior, and while I was trying to grieve, my brothers—who I’m convinced only remembered our father because inheritance has a distinct smell—decided to make my life a misery. Despite me being the one who had cared for Dad through his long battle with dementia, my brothers had shown up with the grace of a wrecking ball to “get what’s theirs.” Between the arguments and their complete disregard for ten years of care, I was nearing a mental breakdown. If it weren’t for my amazing wife, daughters, and my cousin, who knows where I’d be, or, more to the point, not be? But that’s not the point. The point is, we desperately needed this trip to unwind.
We didn’t have much time to prepare for the trip, thanks to last-minute motorhome issues, and the handover from the dealership was about as helpful as being thrown a lifejacket made of bricks. This would come back to haunt us in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
Hitting the Road — It’s All Smooth Sailing… At First
Friday morning at 10 a.m., we were off! “Happy Little Place” was raring to go, packed to the brim, and I was actually feeling optimistic for the first time in weeks. The trip was going well; we only hit a small 20-minute holdup on the M4 motorway (a British rite of passage), but otherwise, it was smooth sailing. I was quickly adjusting to driving the motorhome and had cruise control set at 65, which felt like I was king of the road. Things were starting to look up. The sun was shining, we were on time, and life was good.
We arrived at Cofton Holidays in one piece and were directed to an all-singing, all-dancing pitch. I’m not entirely sure what makes a pitch “sing and dance,” but I imagined it would involve confetti or at least a jazz hands moment. Regardless, I was in full “man mode,” determined to set everything up while my wife, Jo, went off to buy essentials and have a look around.
The “Water Feature” We Never Wanted
Setting up the electrics? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Next, I turned my attention to the water. Now, I’m no plumber, but I was feeling fairly confident. I started to fill the water tank, and all seemed well in the world. Enter Martin, our friendly neighbour from across the way. Martin, bless his heart, came over to let me know that while I was filling the tank, water was pouring out somewhere. Like… a lot of water.
Cue the panic.
I immediately turned the tap off and started inspecting every valve like I was defusing a bomb. Every valve was closed, the pump was on, and yet, it seemed like Happy Little Place was doing its best impression of Niagara Falls. Even worse, I realised the floor was now soggy, meaning a leak had traveled to the kitchen area.
I called Highbridge, the dealership where we got the van, and an engineer was sent out to us. (If only they were this responsive when we needed a proper handover, but I digress.) He found a leak in our closet, which had somehow managed to make its way to the kitchen. It was like the water had a roadmap and vacation plans of its own.
While relieved the leak was fixed, we still couldn’t get the heating or hot water working. During our rushed handover at the dealership, some bright spark had made a joke about leaving valves open “to test us.” Great, because what I really needed in that moment was a pop quiz on motorhome maintenance. I spent an hour wrestling with manuals that were more suited for an alien spaceship than a motorhome. After much frustration, some accidental button-pushing, and more than one angry outburst, I found the culprit valve and got the boiler up and running.
By this point, Jo and I were so exhausted that we hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had a drink, and were too tired to make the bed. Naturally, we did what any loving couple would do under such circumstances — we started bickering. With our last ounce of strength, we went to bed without dinner, falling asleep to the soothing sounds of silence and mutual frustration.
Day Two: Sunshine and Dry Carpets (Sort Of)
We awoke the next day to glorious sunshine. In a cruel twist of fate, the universe decided to smile on us after wrecking our first day. At least now we could enjoy a coffee, some breakfast, and sit outside in the warm sun like the holidaymakers we had envisioned being.
The entire day was spent drying out our sodden clothes, carpets, and generally trying to recover from Friday’s aquatic disaster. By 3 p.m., we’d finally made some progress, and it was time to explore. We visited a lovely local church that had a coffee shop running to raise funds for repairs. The women running the shop were brilliant. They served us tea, cake, and the kind of good-natured gossip that only church ladies can provide. It was a perfect little slice of tranquility.
Back at the campsite, we decided to treat ourselves to a drink by the pool, followed by pizza from the site restaurant. This is where things took a technological nosedive. Despite ordering the pizza online that morning and specifying we’d collect it at 6 p.m., it didn’t actually arrive until 7 p.m. Apparently, the Cofton Holidays eatery had discovered how to overcomplicate pizza collection using technology. As an IT professional, I can confidently say they were using tech for the sake of it, not to make anyone’s life easier. Still, the pizza was delicious — even if it was served with a side of frustration. I couldn’t finish mine, so there was plenty left for tomorrow.
Sunday: A Lazy Day with a Side of Confusion
Sunday dawned, and it was officially “lazy day.” We sat in the sunshine until noon, at which point we’d planned to go for a Sunday carvery at the site’s restaurant. Little did we know, this would be yet another exercise in confusion.
We’d pre-booked the meal before arriving and had been told to collect a voucher at reception. Easy enough, right? Wrong. The voucher didn’t tell us where to go or what to do next. After a good bit of aimless wandering (I felt like a contestant on some sort of disorganised treasure hunt), we finally located the room where the carvery was being served.
But the confusion didn’t stop there. We had to check in at the door, then figure out the process for getting food, which involved multiple trips to the bar and various receipts. Poor Jo was so overwhelmed by it all that she had to sit down while I navigated the baffling process. As a vegetarian, she’d ordered a nut loaf, but of course, it wasn’t ready. By the time her meal was served, I had nearly finished mine.
At this point, we were laughing. We had to. If we didn’t, the sheer ridiculousness of it all would have sent us back into frustration land. Full from our carvery adventure, we headed back to Happy Little Place for a well-deserved drink and a good laugh at how absurdly complicated something as simple as lunch had become.
Lessons from the Trip
In retrospect, our first outing in Happy Little Place was a blend of comedy, calamity, and the kind of misadventures you can only laugh about once they’re over. Sure, we had our water-related panic, our technology-induced pizza delay, and our confusing carvery experience, but we also had sunshine, moments of peace, and the realisation that we could handle whatever the motorhome threw at us, Dawlish was certainly one for the Happy Place.
Motorhome ownership is a learning curve — one steep enough to make you question your sanity. But it’s also a gateway to adventure, mishaps, and stories you’ll be telling for years to come.
Next week, I’ll dive into the return journey, which might be as epic as our outward trip — and include more traffic jams than I dare imagine. Until then, I’ll leave you with this: if you’re thinking of buying a motorhome, do it. Just make sure you’ve got a sense of humour, a lot of patience, and a neighbour like Martin who’s willing to point out when your motorhome is flooding!