In the last few weeks before starting a new life in our American RV, we find ourselves saying, ‘while we’ve got the chance’ on many occasions. The phrase fits with so many things; I’ll just have a bath/use the washing machine/hog the wifi, etc., ‘while we’ve got the chance’. We’ve Ebayed ourselves a Cruise Master Georgie Boy (known as Georgie girl, having become transgender to keep up with current trends). She is a whopping 34 feet long, and hardly lacking in amenities. But we still feel compelled to get as much use out of what we are leaving behind, as possible.
Besides, change – especially from something familiar, to the utterly unknown – is always tricky. I find myself embarrassed to admit this, but to date we have never been on holiday in a motorhome, even for a weekend. I once lived in a caravan for a few weeks, but I was nine at the time, so I suspect that doesn’t count.
And so, as the clock ticks down, we load everything we think we’ll need into Georgie. Then we go home, drop onto the sofa, and catch up on a LOT of telly – while we’ve got the chance.
Introducing Nibbles
We have to get a new car, because my old one is trashed, basically. An American RV is too much to drive out just for the odd pint of milk, so we need a smaller form of transport as well. Many people use bicycles, but we’ll be away in the winter, so that isn’t happening. New car it is.
We decide that weight and fuel consumption are the main factors to consider, so we buy a tiny, two-seater Smart car. I call it Nibbles for no other reason than I am hopeless at recognising my car once it’s in a car park, but I can read a number plate: this one ends in NYB, hence Nibbles.
In the past I’ve often stood outside what I thought was my car, struggling to get it unlocked and cursing the battery in the key fob. Then I’ve bothered to look through the windows and realised this really isn’t my car. Because if it was, then I now sported a natty white hat, circa 1972, and had somehow acquired a toddler.
The fun of RV living
Finally, we move into Georgie, and I get to play. I can stand at my kitchen sink, do all the washing up, and put everything away – almost without moving so much as a toe. I don’t know why this is brilliant, but it just is.
I can also sit at my dining table and set it up for dinner, or a board game, without rising from the banquette. Also brilliant.
It may take me a while to get to grips with the oven, though. It either takes a year to cook anything, or burns it to a cinder in seven seconds flat. But it means we get to eat out a lot, so, yay.
Meanwhile, the thermistor on the fridge needs fixing, as it currently fluctuates between arctic and I-can’t-be-bothered in terms of cooling. A trip to Oxford, then, to get a replacement part? I’m fine with that.
Oh, and I have a heated massage chair. So I can sit with a glass of Lidl’s finest, and watch downloads of Mozart in the jungle, while my arse is heated and pummelled. Seriously, this is the life.
Neighbours
Diane and Bob have been living in various things on wheels for years now, and know pretty much all there is to know about it. The sadistic campsite owner gave us the pitch in front of them and we have been their entertainment ever since.
Steve’s first attempts to use the levellers on a sloping pitch were a particular highlight for them, as we only have a six-inch spirit level and my eyes. And there are lots of hoses, and things, that have to plug in and out of various places. Well, you can imagine.
In the end, I introduce myself, tell them that we are total newcomers to this life and ask their advice on anything I can think of. A tidal wave of kindness, helpfulness and detailed information washes over me. Before we know it, Bob has shown Steve how to unroll the canopy, found the over-the-wheel inflatey things (technical term), and fished all our old spanners back out of the bin (cos we’ll need them, despite the weight issue that led to Steve chucking them in the first place).
All I give them in return is a couple of glasses of red and some honey-roasted nuts. Aren’t people lovely!
Weight
We are concerned about the weight of Georgie, because Steve has a ‘grandad’ licence that allows him to drive 7.5 tonnes, but no more. Georgie is supposed to be 6.0 tonnes, but previous owners have ‘improved’ her. She is now a little bit who-ate-all-the-pies, and weighs in at 7.4.
So we strip out everything that could contribute to this: including many, many mirror tiles, which look all blingy and nice, but are unnecessary weight.
Also of concern is the sofabed: Georgie is not a youngster so neither is the bed. And when put to the test, it becomes clear that it is now more of a torture wrack. Frances, in the van next door, suggests we strip it out, use the space for storage, and buy a really good inflatable bed for visitors.
Brilliant suggestion as it also solves the last of the weight issue, so exactly what we do.
When I meet other people from the campsite, they inform me how odd it is to see someone having gone on holiday, just to saw wood all day. I tell them that that’s nothing – we currently put all the heavy stuff into Nibbles. Ergo, I spend half my time apparently taking Steve’s spanners and my sewing machine out for day trips to the moors.
Loos
Although we have a nice little loo in our nice little bathroom, the less often we have to manoeuvre down to the ‘black’ waste drain, the better. ‘Black’ is a euphemism for stinky, ok? So visits to the campsite amenities block are advised whenever possible.
But to be seen wanting to be as clean as gold pants is, apparently, a bit of a no-no. Drainage is a major concern amongst the caravaning community, and anything that could block, obstruct or – sin-of-sins – tangle up a macerator are frowned upon. In fact, the cheaper the loo roll, the better, and 2-ply if you can get it. Honestly, it never occurred to me that if I were to live the life of my dreams, it would include the use of the word macerator.
Laundry
Where is Dot Cotton when you need her? Campsite laundries are a lottery in terms of price, size of washer, and heat/cost of drier.
Our Georgie came with a twin-tub washing machine from the previous owners. Which didn’t work. At least I hope it didn’t work, and it wasn’t just my incompetence at operating it, because we chucked it in a dump and bought a new one.
This one is … great. Ish. Three pairs of pants and a tea-towel count as a full load, it requires all the water from our tank to fill it, and then it swamps the grey waste one until it groans. Consequently, it can take three weeks to do a weeks washing (but it does fit neatly into our mini-bath).
However, the plug doesn’t reach so I have to use an extension lead, which then has to be wrapped in a towel to stop it getting wet. Also, the shower has sharp edges so I’ve had to fix a soap scrubby thing to it to stop any more of my elbow being gouged out whilst I’m doing my laundry.
. . . . . . . . . .
Somebody asked me today if I was having a wonderfully exciting time.
Well…
I thought about the initial claustrophobia I experienced getting used to a bedroom the size of an average lift.
And about the way that I singe all the hairs off my arm every time I light the grill.
And how I’ve re-packed every single cupboard at least twice, trying to find the easiest way to access what we use most often.
I considered the gouges in my elbow, the dirt in my clothes, and the fact that there isn’t one surface I can guarantee as level.
And I honestly didn’t know what to say.
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