Ah, Malvern! A name that conjures visions of picturesque hills, peaceful showgrounds, and… total motorhome madness. What was supposed to be a relaxing, laid-back weekend at the Caravan and Motorhome Show turned into a comedy of errors, complete with drone warfare, bacon-induced euphoria, and an intimate encounter with the darker side of a toilet cassette.
Join me on this epic adventure, as Happy Little Place—our beloved motorhome—became the unwitting star of the show. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t exactly the glamorous weekend we had in mind, but it sure was entertaining. For those thinking of joining the motorhome life, here’s a taste of what you might be in for.
The Booking Fiasco: A Date with Destiny (and a Security Guard)
You’d think after years of planning trips, I’d be better at organising, right? Wrong. When Jo and I decided to book a trip to the Malvern Three Counties Showground for the Caravan and Motorhome Show, it seemed like a straightforward task. After all, how hard could it be to book a pitch, pack up, and drive out on a weekend? Well, when you factor in work schedules, gate closing times, and the black hole that is my ability to remember small but important details, you get chaos.
We had everything lined up: Jo would finish work at 6:30 PM on Friday, and we’d roll into Malvern by 8 PM. The plan was smooth—until lunchtime on Friday, when a tiny but catastrophic detail hit me like a rogue drone: What time do the gates close?
In a sudden burst of panic, I grabbed my phone and checked. 7 PM. SEVEN. With Jo finishing work at 6:30, we’d need a time machine to make it there before they shut us out. My heart rate spiked faster than my caffeine levels on a Monday morning.
But all was not lost. I frantically called the support line, ready to beg, barter, or possibly cry. Jo, unshaken by the impending doom, called her own contact number. And, because she is clearly blessed with powers of persuasion, she managed to secure us an after-hours rendezvous with a security guard who’d kindly let us in. Jo: 1, Fate: 0.
The Night Drive: Or How to Age 10 Years in 2 Hours
With our impending gate closure crisis averted, Jo finished work, and we hit the road at the crisp hour of 6:45 PM. Of course, by “hit the road,” I mean I cautiously navigated a maze of unfamiliar roads, all while gripping the steering wheel with the white-knuckled intensity of someone piloting a space shuttle re-entry. You see, I’d never driven Happy Little Place at night before. Turns out, it’s a whole different animal when the sun goes down, and everything feels ten times more perilous.
Jo sat calmly beside me, probably marveling at my ability to turn every bump in the road into a mini-crisis. The headlights of oncoming traffic blinded me with laser-like precision, and every bend in the road felt like a test of endurance. By the time we arrived at the showground, I had aged a decade, but we were greeted by the security guard as promised. After some expert-level parking, we were finally able to switch off the engine. I wanted to kiss the ground.
However, I was too exhausted to enjoy any celebratory feelings of accomplishment. Instead, I fumbled with the gas, switched on the habitation 12v, set the heating and fridge to gas, and collapsed into bed. My brain was so fried from the drive that I was convinced I’d left a part of my soul on the A449. But at least we’d made it.
The Morning Surprise: Frozen Breath and Forgotten Buttons
Saturday morning arrived with an optimistic burst of sunshine. That’s usually a good thing—unless, of course, the inside of your motorhome feels like a scene out of Frozen. I opened my eyes and was greeted by my own breath, billowing out in a foggy cloud like I’d spent the night camping in the Arctic Circle.
Why was it so cold?! The fridge wasn’t running either, which meant our carefully planned breakfast was about to involve more ice than eggs. I stared at the offending appliances, piecing together the previous night’s exhaustion-driven mistakes. That’s when it hit me: I had only turned on the gas, but not pressed the critical safety reset button.
One click later, and the heating roared to life, as if mocking me for my forgetfulness. Warmth finally filled Happy Little Place, and Jo gave me the kind of look that clearly said, “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Lesson learned: always double-check your buttons.
Motorhome Show Mayhem: Shopping for “Essentials” and Drone Drama
With the frost-bite crisis averted, we had a quick breakfast and set off to explore the show. Now, the Caravan and Motorhome Show is a wonderland of gadgets, accessories, and things you absolutely do not need but will convince yourself are essential. I’m convinced the stalls have some kind of tractor beam, drawing you in with shiny displays and promises of a better motorhome life.
We wandered around, weaving through the early-bird crowd, picking up a few bits and bobs that we didn’t necessarily need but, in the heat of the moment, seemed entirely justified. Motorhome socks? Yes, please. A wind-resistant awning strap? How had we ever lived without one? After an hour of maneuvering through a now-bustling crowd, we headed back to the van with our haul of treasures.
Back in Happy Little Place, I had the bright idea to take my drone out of its case. It is a sleek little beauty, with more rotors than necessary and the promise of being a fun (and responsible) addition to our adventures. I dabbled with it, I was ready to be the drone master!
That is, until it wasn’t.
Without warning, my once-trusty drone took a dark turn. One minute, it was obeying my every command; the next, it was charging at me like a rabid seagull. In a flash of rotor blades and panic, it made contact. I leapt up, spilling coffee everywhere, while the drone crashed to the floor and my hand throbbed with a dozen tiny cuts.
Jo rushed over, suppressing a mix of laughter and concern. While I contemplated whether the drone had developed a taste for human blood, Jo grabbed a cold compress, handed me a tissue for my injured pride, and cleaned up the coffee. I reluctantly stored the drone away, silently vowing to never trust a flying robot again.
The Bacon Roll That Broke Me
The rest of the afternoon was considerably less dangerous. We wandered the show, enjoyed a quiet latte, and returned to the van for a much-needed nap. But it was Sunday morning when the real temptation struck.
I awoke early, the misty grey skies perfectly matching the mood of not wanting to leave. Rain had started to drizzle—softly at first, then building into a heavier downpour. I decided to go for a solo stroll before we began packing up, and that’s when the smell hit me. Bacon. Glorious, sizzling bacon, wafting through the air like a siren song.
I followed my nose to a nearby food stall and, without hesitation, bought a bacon roll. There are moments in life when you know something isn’t the healthiest choice, but you just don’t care. This was one of those moments. As I stood there, grease dripping from my fingers, I was convinced it was the best decision I had made all weekend.
But the stall next to the bacon roll vendor had a new temptation: Turkish delight. Now, I’m not even a big fan of Turkish delight, but after the drone incident, I was apparently in the mood to spoil myself. I somehow walked away from that stall with a bag full of sweets, an empty wallet, and zero regrets. Life was good.
Later that day, Jo and I decided to stretch our legs again, wandering through the maze of show stalls and ogling the motorhomes that made our own look like a budget-friendly starter kit. While meandering, we stumbled upon the stand for That Leisure Shop—cue the lightbulb moment. I remembered their podcast going on about Solbio, the all-natural, planet-saving elixir for toilet cassettes. Intrigued, we popped in, where we were greeted by an incredibly bubbly lady whose enthusiasm was so infectious it should’ve come with a warning label. After a chat about nature, camping, and how we were still finding our feet with our second adventure in HLP, we gave in and bought the Solbio—clearly a worthy investment for our tiny kingdom on wheels. Our shopping spree continued until the coffee cravings hit, and we sauntered back to our cosy mobile home, feeling victorious and caffeinated.
The Toilet Cassette: The Final Ritual
With my belly full and my bags heavier, it was time to prepare for the journey home. But no motorhome trip is complete without the sacred ritual of the toilet cassette.
For those unfamiliar, the toilet cassette is a small but mighty invention that lets you manage your onboard bathroom situation with minimal horror. That is, as long as you empty it properly. This delicate operation requires a steady hand, a strong stomach, and a good dose of humility.
After successfully completing the task (without any mishaps, thank you very much), Jo returned to Happy Little Place feeling like she’d conquered a great mountain. We packed up the rest of our gear, said our goodbyes to the showground, and got ready for the drive home.
The Rain, the Crawl, and the Rainbow
Jo was supposed to take the wheel for the first part of the journey home. But as if the weather gods had heard our plan, the heavens opened up, and the rain poured down in a relentless torrent. The motorway slowed to a snail’s pace as visibility dropped, and Jo wisely decided to postpone her driving debut. The van felt like a boat, wading through the downpour as we crawled along the motorway.
After what felt like hours, we finally neared home, and in a poetic twist, the sky cleared. A beautiful, vivid rainbow appeared, arching across the sky as if to remind us that, despite the madness, motorhome life is full of moments, memories that we can cherish forever.
Until the next chapter, drive safe and God bless.