Modern caravans are wildly luxurious compared to the damp and mildewed ones of my youth – Susan Morrison

Susan Morrison is blown away by the masterpiece of design that is the modern caravan
Today’s caravans are nothing like the damp and mildewed ones of Susan’s childhood, she has discovered (Picture: Stephen Mansfield)Today’s caravans are nothing like the damp and mildewed ones of Susan’s childhood, she has discovered (Picture: Stephen Mansfield)
Today’s caravans are nothing like the damp and mildewed ones of Susan’s childhood, she has discovered (Picture: Stephen Mansfield)

We’re on holiday. In Eyemouth. In a caravan. Child-me would have been thrilled. Adult-me is vaguely surprised at how much she’s enjoying it.

There are plenty of positives in the ‘VisitEyemouth’ column. It’s only an hour away, so no need to fly, so nae chance of being strapped in seats next to a stag party from Leeds. And also, very little chance of returning home to a welcome committee waving thermometers prior to slinging you in quarantine for 14 days.

It’s also lovely and very welcoming. Go visit.

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My only reservation was the accommodation. When my husband mentioned a caravan, I had a flared nostril moment of concern.

I remember caravans, you see. You probably do, too. The murk, hiss and whiff of Calor Gas. The all-pervasive reek of wet swimsuits, soggy children and mildewed bedding. Damp, yer Scottish caravan of the 1960s. Even the pretend cash on the Monopoly board never fully dried.

And, of course, no wild luxuries such as an indoor loo. Why would there be? Back then, some homes still had outdoor cludgies.

Night-time trips for bladder relief became blackout missions requiring combat gear of duffle coats, wellies and balaclavas.

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Flickering torches were issued, along with personal supplies of Izal, the only toilet paper to survive damp and be used as tracing paper by the kids on a rainy day.

British caravan sites in those days of Harold Wilson and Viscount Biscuits had a certain grimmness to them. They drew heavily on the examples of camps provided in films such as The Wooden Horse and The Great Escape.

Not so now. This caravan is so luxurious I might move in. We have a powershower, and not one but two toilets, one en-suite to the master bedroom. My husband has been told that this loo will remain unused. I know what that man can do. Treaties have been written to prevent that sort of treatment of non-combatants.

Men seem to like caravans. Well, mine does. Caravans, like boats, are masterpieces of space-saving design. He spent the first hours of our relaxing holiday opening cupboards, lifting cushions and peering into drawers like a deranged CIA agent on a mission. I am happy that there is central heating, a flat-screen television and a well-stocked Co-op nearby with an excellent selection of wine. And there’s nary a whiff of Calor Gas.

Porty beach here I come!

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I packed my swimming costume. I had a notion to try this currently fashionable ‘wild swimming’, or as we used to call it, ‘swimming’.

On family holidays all the children swam. We were encouraged using an approach I can only describe as near-Polynesian. Get in deepish water, learn to swim.

Mums came swimming, in costumes best described as ‘trusty’ with knots tied in the shoulders because the strap had broken. They were on hand to casually save random children, then throw them back in.

Fathers were paddlers, given to rolling up trousers legs and striding in the mild surf, being careful not to get their Embassy Regal wet. Fags and exercise were not considered mutally exclusive back in then. My uncle had swimming trunks, but he never wore them. They had ‘Property of Glasgow Corporation’ on the side.

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I loved swimming. Mum says I’d go into the water and stay for hours, only coming out for Dairylee cheese sarnies and Kia Ora. I’d come out wrinkled and shivering. Well, this time, I’d go in wrinkled and shivering. Save time.

But, boy, did I swither on the shore. I’d pulled loose trousers and a hoodie over my swimming costume. My towel was in a Co-op bag. To the casual observer, I could have passed as a mad old lady out to buy cat food, taking a detour via the sea.

The tide was out. To my alarm, a dachshund was in the water. His collar wasn’t even wet. How far would I have to walk before I could swim?

What if I started swimming and a whaling fleet spotted me and made a terrible mistake? The last thing we need right now is a diplomatic impasse with the Norwegians. What would people say at the sight of my old bahookie wading into the deep? I needn’t have worried. Nobody batted an eyelid. In fact, people said good morning and one woman said she wished she’d known, she would have joined me.

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Yes, I would have screamed when I first got in, but I couldn’t. The cold knocked every bit of breath out of me. But, just like being a child again, the water seemed to get warmer and I swam the way I swam when I was nine, and it was every bit as magical as I remembered.

I floated on my back and looked at the clouds and wondered if I should get some Dairylee sarnies for next time.

There will be a next time, I’m warning you, Portobello.

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