Day 1: Monday
8 September 2014
I have a totally irrational fear of conking out in the Tyne Tunnel (I did once in an asthmatic old Bedford CA Caravanette) so I would take any pains to avoid that. I would be no happier threading my way through miles of traffic across the Tyne Bridge. If I had had an inkling of what was to come, I would gladly have attempted that journey in the middle of the rush-hour. We by-passed Newcastle easily to the west and found our way onto the A69, a very decent road. We bowled along at 50 m.p.h. You would hardly have known we were towing a caravan. We started to listen to the Irish woman on the satellite navigation gubbins. She had a soft voice but she led us a merry dance. We came off the A69 onto a minor road and she told us to turn right, then left. We ended up in a housing estate. I had to reverse the caravan and turn around. I hate reversing the caravan. It took about ten goes. She meant that we had to turn right 200 yards further on. After about four miles more, she told us to turn left again. We did so, and found the road narrowing to an alarming degree. Then she told us to turn around. Luckily, at a bend in the road, there was enough space for me to complete the reversing manoeuvre. I did it in only eight goes this time.
That was only the beginning. She took us up into the north Pennines, as bleak a vista as you could possibly imagine. Up steep hills, around crazy bends, descending through deep rifts into valleys containing nothing but rocks and sheep. Then came a hill that was as steep as a slalom and with a snake-like series of bends that hurt my neck just to look at them. The car almost didn’t make the summit. On one hair-raising manoeuvre round a tight S-bend, the power dropped off dramatically and the Citroen wheezed along like a slug with influenza thereafter. We limped along for a couple more miles, then we descended several hundred feet into a basin as desolate as Dead Man’s Gulch. I stopped the car. I could smell burning friction linings. I felt the caravan wheels and they were red-hot. I withdrew my scorched fingers with a yelp of pain. The heat had melted the securing trumpets of the plastic wheel trims and both trims promptly fell off. The cause of the heat was immediately obvious. The caravan handbrake was full on. “Did you put the handbrake on at Haggerston Castle and forget to take it off?” my wife asked. “Certainly not. Do you take me for an idiot?” I replied. There was a long, silent pause.
I released the handbrake and looked up at the long, steep hill that loomed up ahead. “We have no choice but to soldier on,” I said. “How far is it to the site?” “Fourteen miles,” replied my wife. I waited twenty minutes to let the caravan brakes cool. I took a walk around. There was nothing. A ribbon of road leading into infinity, scorched-brown earth and ten-foot high snow poles every ten yards. No sheep dared roam here, only the odd mastodon, and not the slightest hint of human habitation. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, “And quickly.”
Once we had negotiated the long and winding road, conditions eased. We had finally left Saturn and entered a recognisable world of tiny villages, leafy lanes, schoolchildren, pubs, churches and even the odd shop. Eventually, six hours after setting out, we had accomplished the 161 miles from start to finish.
I met the site manager at pitch 65 – the pitches all had numbers painted on upright wooden markers and woe betide you if you parked up an inch out of line. . I couldn’t reverse, of course. In turning the steering-wheel to full lock, I inadvertently pulled on the caravan handbrake again. The site manager sized up the situation at once. He said: “You should never fasten your breakaway cable to the car’s towing bracket. You should always wrap it once round the towbar and clip it to itself. It’s far too short.” So that was what had happened! Going round hairpin bends had caused the breakaway cable, attached to the bottom of the handbrake lever, to pull tight and force on the brake!
The site manager and I managed to extricate the cable, but it was wrecked. “Where’s the nearest caravan accessories place?” I asked him. “Darlington,” he replied. Twenty-odd miles away!
The site was very busy. We would have as much privacy as Cheryl Cole. We set up the van, emptied the car, and ate a sandwich. We drank strong, comforting tea. “I never want to go through an experience like that again,” I said. “You'll have to in ten days,” replied my wife, drily.
I took a bicycle ride along the footpaths surrounding the site. The site was surrounded by uninspiring farmland populated by masticating sheep, which invariably look at you with extreme puzzlement, as if they had never seen anything walking on two legs before. One path led to a farmer’s scrapyard full of rusting machinery, another to a mountain of slurry. The site was a good fifteen-minute walk from the main road. The place was as isolated as Glastonbury Tor.
At least the weather stayed fine.
In which my wife, little black spaniel and I
embark on a ten-day holiday journey to Barnard Castle Caravan and Camping club site,
towing a 1991 Elldis Vogue II caravan with additional extras such as opening
windows. Tow car is a seven-year-old Citroen
Xsara Picasso 2.0i auto Exclusive.
After all the
preparations and angst leading up to the event, the great day finally
arrived. I was up at 07:15. The morning was fine and dry. I wanted to discourage burglars, so I secured the side gate after breakfast,
using an offcut of wood drilled with two holes.
This was in order to bring the hasp and staple to the level of the gate. I then affixed the staple to the offcut with
four tiny screws. I secured the hasp and
staple with a padlock I got out of a Christmas cracker.
Hitching the caravan
was tricky, because of the camber of the drive, but I managed it in the end and
we set off at around 10 a.m.. The first part of the journey was fine. We made reasonable time down the A1 to
Haggerston Castle. We ate some cheese
and onion sandwiches there and drank coffee. I walked the dog up to the caravan
park and the old tower. The park was
busy. I have a totally irrational fear of conking out in the Tyne Tunnel (I did once in an asthmatic old Bedford CA Caravanette) so I would take any pains to avoid that. I would be no happier threading my way through miles of traffic across the Tyne Bridge. If I had had an inkling of what was to come, I would gladly have attempted that journey in the middle of the rush-hour. We by-passed Newcastle easily to the west and found our way onto the A69, a very decent road. We bowled along at 50 m.p.h. You would hardly have known we were towing a caravan. We started to listen to the Irish woman on the satellite navigation gubbins. She had a soft voice but she led us a merry dance. We came off the A69 onto a minor road and she told us to turn right, then left. We ended up in a housing estate. I had to reverse the caravan and turn around. I hate reversing the caravan. It took about ten goes. She meant that we had to turn right 200 yards further on. After about four miles more, she told us to turn left again. We did so, and found the road narrowing to an alarming degree. Then she told us to turn around. Luckily, at a bend in the road, there was enough space for me to complete the reversing manoeuvre. I did it in only eight goes this time.
That was only the beginning. She took us up into the north Pennines, as bleak a vista as you could possibly imagine. Up steep hills, around crazy bends, descending through deep rifts into valleys containing nothing but rocks and sheep. Then came a hill that was as steep as a slalom and with a snake-like series of bends that hurt my neck just to look at them. The car almost didn’t make the summit. On one hair-raising manoeuvre round a tight S-bend, the power dropped off dramatically and the Citroen wheezed along like a slug with influenza thereafter. We limped along for a couple more miles, then we descended several hundred feet into a basin as desolate as Dead Man’s Gulch. I stopped the car. I could smell burning friction linings. I felt the caravan wheels and they were red-hot. I withdrew my scorched fingers with a yelp of pain. The heat had melted the securing trumpets of the plastic wheel trims and both trims promptly fell off. The cause of the heat was immediately obvious. The caravan handbrake was full on. “Did you put the handbrake on at Haggerston Castle and forget to take it off?” my wife asked. “Certainly not. Do you take me for an idiot?” I replied. There was a long, silent pause.
I released the handbrake and looked up at the long, steep hill that loomed up ahead. “We have no choice but to soldier on,” I said. “How far is it to the site?” “Fourteen miles,” replied my wife. I waited twenty minutes to let the caravan brakes cool. I took a walk around. There was nothing. A ribbon of road leading into infinity, scorched-brown earth and ten-foot high snow poles every ten yards. No sheep dared roam here, only the odd mastodon, and not the slightest hint of human habitation. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, “And quickly.”
Once we had negotiated the long and winding road, conditions eased. We had finally left Saturn and entered a recognisable world of tiny villages, leafy lanes, schoolchildren, pubs, churches and even the odd shop. Eventually, six hours after setting out, we had accomplished the 161 miles from start to finish.
I met the site manager at pitch 65 – the pitches all had numbers painted on upright wooden markers and woe betide you if you parked up an inch out of line. . I couldn’t reverse, of course. In turning the steering-wheel to full lock, I inadvertently pulled on the caravan handbrake again. The site manager sized up the situation at once. He said: “You should never fasten your breakaway cable to the car’s towing bracket. You should always wrap it once round the towbar and clip it to itself. It’s far too short.” So that was what had happened! Going round hairpin bends had caused the breakaway cable, attached to the bottom of the handbrake lever, to pull tight and force on the brake!
The site manager and I managed to extricate the cable, but it was wrecked. “Where’s the nearest caravan accessories place?” I asked him. “Darlington,” he replied. Twenty-odd miles away!
The site was very busy. We would have as much privacy as Cheryl Cole. We set up the van, emptied the car, and ate a sandwich. We drank strong, comforting tea. “I never want to go through an experience like that again,” I said. “You'll have to in ten days,” replied my wife, drily.
I took a bicycle ride along the footpaths surrounding the site. The site was surrounded by uninspiring farmland populated by masticating sheep, which invariably look at you with extreme puzzlement, as if they had never seen anything walking on two legs before. One path led to a farmer’s scrapyard full of rusting machinery, another to a mountain of slurry. The site was a good fifteen-minute walk from the main road. The place was as isolated as Glastonbury Tor.
At least the weather stayed fine.
