It was a crisp December morning, the kind that smells faintly of pine needles and misplaced optimism. We found ourselves in “Happy Little Place,” our trusty motorhome, poised for what promised to be a merry weekend adventure. This trip was special—a celebration of our 36th wedding anniversary. Back in 1988, we had our honeymoon in Moreton-in-Marsh, staying at the Redesdale Arms Hotel. Since then, we’ve tried to make it back almost every year. But this time was different; instead of the hotel, we’d be sleeping in the motorhome, embracing a new chapter of tradition. Jo, ever the optimist despite a stubbornly infected sore on her ankle, declared she’d be fine. As anyone who’s spent time in a motorhome during the festive season will attest, Christmas cheer can sometimes come with a side of slapstick comedy. And oh, did we get a full helping.
Pre-Departure: Tyre Pressure and False Hope
Before leaving the secure storage place where ‘Happy Little Place’ resides, we decided to check the tyre pressure—a responsible pre-departure ritual, or so we thought. Simple, right? Wrong. In an act of holiday betrayal, our trusty compressor revealed that its lead was laughably short—too short to reach the rear tyres.
Imagine the scene: I’m crouched awkwardly, twisting and turning the lead like it’s a puzzle piece, all while Jo looks on with that mix of amusement and disbelief only a partner of 36 years can master. To add insult to injury, we’d bought the compressor at a Caravan and Motorhome shop. Yes, the irony was strong with this one.
Note to self: Buy a tyre pressure monitor. And maybe an extension lead for the compressor. Or a new compressor. Or a therapist.
Saturday Afternoon: A Stroll Through Christmas Cheer
Once the tyres were as good as they were going to get, we hit the road and arrived at the Caravan and Motorhome Club Campsite in Moreton-in-Marsh. Before heading to our pitch, we were instructed to fill up with water—a task that seemed reasonable enough until we discovered later that our pitch had “the works,” including running water. Ah, the joys of motorhome living! With that small detour behind us, we soon found ourselves ready to stretch our legs with a walk into Moreton-in-Marsh.
The town greeted us with the delightful chaos of a Christmas market. Stalls brimming with handcrafted gifts lined the streets, tempting us to spend far more than we’d planned. The scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts filled the air, mingling with the joyous sounds of a jazz band belting out jazzy renditions of classic carols.
Jo and I wandered through the market, laughing as we admired quirky ornaments and sampled festive treats. Jo’s ankle, however, was less cheerful. She soldiered on, insisting she was fine, though her wincing with every step told a different story. “It’s just a bit sore,” she said, hobbling past a stall selling herbal remedies. I briefly considered buying her a salve, but Jo gave me the look—the one that says, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ At one stall, I nearly bought a knitted Santa hat for the motorhome’s dashboard figure, but Jo wisely reminded me we’d need space for the cheese haul on the return journey. The whole scene felt like stepping into a Hallmark Christmas special, albeit one where the leads are slightly frazzled motorhomers with a penchant for Asti.
By the time we ambled back to “Happy Little Place,” our arms were full of goodies, and our hearts were brimming with holiday cheer. It was the perfect prelude to the evening’s festivities.
Saturday Evening: Pumped Up Problems
The day’s minor inconveniences were soon forgotten as we settled into the evening’s routine. That is until the water pump decided to audition for a role in “The Loudest Sounds of Christmas.” It started with a gentle hum every time we flushed the toilet, but by dinner, it was belting out a crescendo loud enough to rival the local church bells.
Cue the two of us, heads under the bed where the amp was, armed with a flashlight and misguided hope. We twiddled knobs, muttered under our breath, and eventually declared defeat. The pump was promptly switched off for the night, leaving us to enjoy a blissful silence—and a stark reminder of how much we take running water for granted. Jo’s ankle, meanwhile, decided to remind us of its presence by throbbing in time with the fairy lights. “Maybe I should’ve stayed off it today,” she admitted, finally propping it up on a cushion as we settled in with Asti and cheese.
But all was not lost. As the evening wore on, we decided to embrace the festive chaos with a spread of cheese and crackers, paired with a glass (or two) of Asti Spumante. The motorhome, aglow with multicoloured fairy lights, took on the aura of a mobile Christmas grotto. By the time we sent pictures to the family, the feedback was unanimous: “It’s a party bus!” Laughter echoed through “Happy Little Place” as we toasted to a night of imperfect, yet undeniably cheerful, motorhome magic.
Note to self: Call Highbridge. Tell them about the pump. Maybe sing “Silent Night” while I’m at it.
Sunday Morning: Gaslighted by the Gas Cylinder
Sunday dawned cold and clear, a perfect morning for coffee. Or so we thought. As I tried to fire up the hob, it became painfully clear that our gas cylinder had other ideas. No flame, no hiss—just a stubborn refusal to cooperate. After several failed attempts and a lot of muttered curses, I was prepared to spend £55 on a replacement cylinder, but on the way to the campsite shop I thought about checking the cut-off valve coming off the gas bottle. Lo and behold, as I pressed the safety button reset there was a hiss of gas and the motorhome was firing on all cylinder. While I was down with the gas bottle I noticed something hidden at the top of the gas box: a connector for a second cylinder. Ah-ha! A revelation!!

Of course, this epiphany came too late to save breakfast, but it did inspire yet another item on our growing shopping list.
Note to self: Buy a second cylinder. Maybe a third. And possibly a manual on how to operate gas cylinders without incident.
Sunday Morning: Blinded by the Blind
If motorhomes could groan, ours would’ve been a symphony by now. We decided to spend Sunday in the motorhome, reasoning that rest was exactly what Jo’s ankle needed after the market adventure. After all, this was our “Happy Little Place.” Eventually, Jo sat down with her leg propped up and declared, “I’m staying put today.”
Seizing the moment, I decided to practice my art. Drawing Jo seemed like the perfect subject—a combination of challenge and sentiment. With sketchbook in hand, I began to outline her relaxed yet slightly amused expression. After all, practice was essential if I was to enter a competition in 2025. Between the hum of the motorhome and Jo’s occasional quips about my artistic interpretation, it turned into a surprisingly peaceful afternoon.
As we tidied up later early evening, Jo pointed out that the blind on the bedroom window wasn’t quite right, just as she tried to adjust it while balancing on her good leg. Her other foot was elevated slightly, her ankle wrapped in a makeshift support. “I’m fine,” she said, wobbling precariously, though the blind and I both begged to differ. It was creasing at the edges, threatening to fold in on itself like a grumpy accordion. A quick inspection confirmed what we already knew: we’d be adding this to the growing list of things for Highbridge to look at.
Note to self: Tell Highbridge about the blind. Possibly bring biscuits to soften the blow.
Christmas Cheer Amidst Chaos
Despite the mishaps, the weekend wasn’t without its charm. In the evenings, we huddled under blankets, sipping Asti Spumante wine and laughing at the absurdity of it all. The motorhome, bedecked in fairy lights, looked like something out of a Christmas movie—the kind where the protagonists endure a series of comedic disasters before finding the true meaning of the season.
And find it we did. Between the tyre debacle, the noisy pump, and the gas cylinder drama, we discovered that Christmas isn’t about perfection. It’s about the stories you create, the laughter you share, and the memories you make—even if they’re punctuated by the occasional expletive.
Until Next Time
In the morning of Monday we prepared the motorhome and ourselves for the trip home, we needed to be out of the pitch by 12pm. By 10:30 we had everything packed so we treated ourselves to a nice hot chocolate before hitting the road. After having a brief break I finished off the de-clattering and noise suppression when I heard a scream from Jo. As I turned around I could see that the hot chocolate that we had been drinking was now over the floor and furniture of the lounge area. Jo, in a moment of distorted pain, buckled knocking the hot chocolate cup as she fell to the ground. Spilling liquid on the carpet was turning into a regular part of us going out in HLP. Half an hour later we were ready to leave having added another set of moments to our ever increasing gallery of memories.
Before driving off I couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for our quirky little motorhome. Sure, it’s temperamental, and yes, it has a knack for turning the simplest tasks into epic sagas. But it’s ours. And as we drove away, I whispered the same promise I always do:
“See you soon, Happy Little Place. And don’t worry—we’ll bring the cheese.”
Epilogue: Lessons from the Weekend
- Always test your compressor lead length before you need it.
- Water pumps are loud. Accept it.
- Gas cylinders are trickier than they look.
- Motorhome blinds have a mind of their own.
- Laughter (and mulled wine) is the best remedy for motorhome mishaps.
Here’s to many more adventures—and an even longer shopping list! Merry Christmas, everyone.
