SETTLING IN AT SLINGSBY

At last, it was a pleasant evening.  The sun shone and a crisp breeze kept the temperature down.  I was seated on a director’s chair, outside the caravan, looking out over fields, and beyond that, gently rolling hills.  We were parked far too near the toilet block and I could hear the babel of voices from the wash-house. Most had Yorkshire accents.  Most were geriatrics, like me.  The previous day had been traumatic.  The caravan lights had stopped working – no indicators, sidelights or brake lights.  I had to rely on hand signals.  It occurred to me that young drivers probably didn’t understand what these were, and would think I was offering them some form of abuse. I had to face the reality that the twenty-four-year-old caravan is on its last legs. The immersion heater isn’t working, so no hot water.  The fixtures and fittings are so brittle that they are likely to break at the merest touch.  This happened when I pressed one of the interior light switches and it came away in my hand.  Then, when I connected the water pump to the filter assembly, the securing lug snapped clean off.   This may well be my last ever caravan holiday.  I love the freedom of caravanning, and the effect of shovelfuls of fresh air and horse manure is of great benefit to mind and body.  I hate the stress of towing and, especially reversing, when the caravan seems to develop a mind of its own and performs some sort of St. Vitus' dance every time I turn the steering wheel.  I did not erect the awning, due to the stiff breeze.  It would have been like rigging the mainsail in a force eight south-easter in choppy seas.  The awning, a more recent model, wasn’t designed for this caravan, and, when erected, it never looks right, affecting a rhomboid rather than the more usual cubic shape.  We have fetched up at Slingsby, in Yorkshire.  Slingsby is my favourite camping site, mainly because it is one of the few that do not require you to enter a code that you can never remember in order to release a barrier and gain entry.  The site is on the trackbed of the former Slingsby railway station, which closed to passengers in 1930 and freight in 1965. Why there was ever a station there at all is a mystery, because even at its peak, there were only four trains a day and it took 36 minutes to chug the six miles up to Malton.  The population then must have been about a hundred and fifty. The village is small, pretty and quiet, full of dwellings made of yellow stone with terra cotta tiled roofs.  There is an attractive sports ground containing a cricket pitch and tennis courts next to an unpretentious yet appealing little parish church,. The view from the solitary bench in the sports ground, a handsome new hardwood affair, is of endless fields and trees leading to the Howardian Hills in the distance.