Saturday 12th March 1993

Now I know what they mean by windswept moors. Boy did it blow. And rain. And sleet. And snow. So why did I chose to go off for a week motorhoming? And why did I chose the first day of all that to drive into a ditch, destroying 20 feet of dry stone wall in the middle of nowhere?

The last ten days had been mild and I had a week off work, so I decided to take off, heading for as far south as I could reach and hopefully warmer climes.

I was on the far edge of the Yorkshire Dales heading at about 30mph into Lancashire when, with a combination of being blown and overcompensating for an oncoming car, my left wheel caught the grass verge. It was soft and slippery. And I started to slip - slip quickly down a small bank. The 6lcwt of van would not obey my steering instructions to go back up the slope and there quickly followed the sickening sound of scraping and crunching as metal met stone. It seemed to go on for ever as the poor motorhome seemed to be going deeper into this lose wall, the stones quickly rolling away into a marshy field - until we all came to sudden halt with a bang. Everything in the motorhome went flying all over. And I and the van were left sitting in shock at a 45 degree angle. I was frightened of teetering over into the field below.

Fortunately a car was not far behind me. After checking I was OK, the driver said he would inform the police. A friendly Dales bobby arrived in about 15 minutes and said he would arrange recovery.

Then began a one-and-a-half hour wait as the wind blew harder, the rain got wetter and the motorhome quickly lost its heat. Light was failing as it was about five pm - going-home time for most people - and suddenly the road seemed really busy. And every other car stopped and the kind occupants asked if I needed help. To start with I gingerly climbed out of the cab each time to speak to them, but after a while I got so wet and cold doing that, I swallowed my guilty feelings of appearing ungrateful and stayed in my 45 degree driver's seat and let them approach me.

That was until the farmer who owned the wall happened to pass by. "Twenty feet," said the ruddy-faced man, after clamber over all the stones. "Bugger his wall," said another Dalesman who had also stopped. "At least you're not hurt." "£15 a yard," said farmer Metcalfe (I knew he was the land owner as the bobby had told me his name). "I've got to claim as I've had three lots of damage this past year." I bargained him to £75, cash (at least a cheque) on the spot.

Eventually the recovery vehicle and young man arrived and he towed me first backwards then, because of the mounds of stone, forwards and out of the ditch. Amazingly, except for a dented front wing and broken headlight, there didn't seem much other damage. I carefully followed him - it was now snowing and lying on the road - five miles across the moor passed the famous Ribblehead viaduct and on to a pub, where before a very welcome blazing fire I treated him to a pint of Old Peculiar as we tried to dry out and stop shivering.

The pub landlord allowed me to park overnight in his car park. I retreated to my motorhome, lit the gas fire, tidied up, had a quick meal then decided to hit the warmth of bed and a hot water bottle.

But sleep was not so easy as the van was shaken violently all night by the strongest gales I have ever known and hammered by rain. I had visions of being blown over. However I awoke at 6.30am to daylight and the van still rocking madly in the wind. At least it wasn't raining and I had slept.

Sunday 13th March

As everything seemed to be working all right, I continued with my journeys, heading ever-so-carefully against the strong westerlies along the country roads in the attractive but - despite its name - fairly treeless Forest of Bowland area. When I stopped for a pub lunch, it was like stepping ashore from a ship. The ground and pub walls seemed to be swaying in the wind.

I visited the handsome city of Lancaster which, around its castle, looks very much like Durham. Then I decided to head for the coast, south of Morecombe and Heysham, an area which looked attractive on the map.

High tide - road impassable!

But industry and drabness was the main feature of this flat area. The most interesting oddity were the many roads impassable because of a high tide - the sea submerging them by up to two feet. It was better south of Lancaster, where I headed for a place called Cockerham and then a remote but large caravan park right on the sea's edge.

It was quite expensive (£9 including electric hookup) but had what it boasted was a country club - ie, a bar! In the high season there were cabarets etc. The wind was easing and it was definitely warmer.

Monday 14th March

The day was spent mostly on motorways, heading south but looking for a Fiat dealer who would be able to fix me up with a new headlight. This turned out to be a chase between unexciting Warrington and Stockport, where I was successful. By the time it was fixed it was time to think of an overnight stop.

Heading through more suburbia, I eventually found an attractive camp site in the grounds of a stately home - Capesthorne Hall near Macclesfield. This has been (and still is the home of the same family (Bromley-Davenport) since Domesday times. I nearly ran over lazy pheasant, entering the 60 acres of park, garden and woodlands that surround a magnificent looking house. Cheaper than the previous night, the campsite right next to the existing hall (dating from 1719) was £6.50 with hook-up.

Tuesday 15th March

Awoke to find colourful ducks wandering around my home. They like the rain - and it had rained most of the night. This in turn had transformed the grassy site: it was now deceptively boggy. And when I was reversing gently away ... slip, slide, stuck! The more I gently tried to coax the van forwards, or backwards, the deeper the front wheels sank.

Oh dear. I tried shoving the old car mats I had brought under the wheels. They did nothing except acquire a thick layer of mud. Went for the warden, No problem, he said, I'll get the tractor to tow you. The tractor turned out to be one of these mini jobs used in large gardens, but it did have fat tyres and four-wheel drive. First thing that happened was his tow rope metal catch broke. I fished out my tow rope and we tried again. His wheel spun and started to sink. He tried pulling me forwards and backwards, muttering he had never experienced this sort of difficulty before.

He got long slip mats to go under my wheels. One shot out backwards when I tried to move forward. Eventually after having managed to inch the motorhome all of half a foot forward, we packed the ditches my skidding had created with stones and other objects. Then with me carefully giving power to my wheels and with him towing, we were free! After cleaning up mud from everywhere, I was on my way (after nearly running over the same lazy pheasant) two hours later than planned.

The air was beautiful and clear, there were plenty patches of blue sky and interesting cloud formations through which rays of sun spotlighted the deep green countryside. And on many a verge, brilliant yellow daffodils surprised me their announcement of spring. In the North, I haven't even noticed them sprouting yet.

It was a very interesting run through unfamiliar territory for me. I bypassed boring industrial Crew but went through the charming town of Nantwich. It and other towns and villages in this part of Shropshire are the real old England, looking much as they did centuries ago. Black and white, timbered-frame houses are in abundance, often sitting next to large buildings with stone walls all at crazy angles. I went through a town called Ludlow with buildings ranging from medieval to Georgian.

I was heading for Bath via Gloucester, but detoured slightly through superb scenery with gentle undulating hills to Ross-on-Wye. Really, to visit all these placing would take weeks, so I edged round Gloucester but couldn't fail to see on the skyline its magnificent cathedral, which dominates the city.

Even though it was dark by the time I had made Bath, one could not fail to be impressed with its elegant architecture - much of it floodlit. I found a very sophisticated campsite called Newton Mill Touring Centre (very sophisticated £10 fee) nestling in a valley where, from the 11th century until the 1930s, there had been a working mill. It had all centrally-heated mod-cons and excellent facilities for motorcaravanners. So I made use of them, emptying my loo and waste water tank and refilling with water.

There was a clubhouse, which I visited for a pint, but there were no campers there to socialise with -just a couple of elderly gents arguing volubly in thick Somerset accents and at great length on how quick they could wip in and out clutch plates in all variety of cars (Renaults came out by far the worst!) I retired to cook myself a meal, write up my log and then - as I was positioned right next to the stream, went to sleep to its burbling music.

Wednesday 16th March

I made it ... Lands End! Well almost. I am 16 miles away, having got to the nearest campsite open at this time of year just as it was getting dark. I would have been earlier had I not been so scared.

I had travelled through the sweeping curves of the Mendip Hills, travelling mostly on A and B roads (avoiding motorways), then through congested and unattractive Exeter to take the dual carriageway A30 to Penzance in Cornwall - the legendary land of King Arthur but with real history steeped in smuggling and shipwrecks. This switchback road is like the backbone of the foot of England (to mix metaphors, or anatomy) going over the top of the bleak moors.

Sledgehammer winds have been the bane of this week, and a north-westerly gale was sweeping piratically over the exposed land. I could almost feel the high-sided motorhome being lifted off the road and was very frightened I would be sent flying on to my side.

So I turned off to head south to hopefully a more sheltered route. This must have added nearly two hours to my driving time, but had the real bonus of giving me a taste of the other side of the South-West countryside - the kindlier green farmlands watered by streams and gurgling rivers, the narrow twisting lanes with their very high hedges (at one point, branches were brushing both sides of the vehicle), of ever-so pretty villages with thatched-roof cottages nestled in little valley corners and of woods and forests with all types of trees.

The River Valley Caravan Park (cost with hook-up £7.50) is what is classed in the guide as a 'hideaway'. It has all the amenities, but is very secluded and peaceful - there being no bar, restaurant or amusements. It does have a shop, but it does not open until after Easter. Hey-ho. a quiet night!

Thursday 17th March

I learnt an important lesson today - never take a motor caravan into Cornish fishing villages. There I was, gaily following other cars into St Ives, where I wanted to see how the north coast took the supposed fury of the North Atlantic (the southern coast borders the gentler English Channel). Suddenly most of the other vehicles had disappeared into a maze of by-ways and there I was trying to find my way to the harbour in streets that were growing ever narrower.

St Ives - roads impassable!

I began to feel guilty that I should be driving there at all, as pedestrians were forced to take to doorways to let me past.

I was sweating. The pretty cottages and old-fashioned shops, some built into the rocks, loomed ever closer and I arrived at one corner and could not get round - until I shuffled backwards and forwards, peering anxiously into my large wing mirrors. Then horror! Fifty feet on I could go no further because of low scaffolding where building work was under way. Stopped in my tracks, I asked a man who appeared from a doorway if there was any chance of scraping through. With a shake of his head, he said: "You'll have to turn round", indicating a little space in front of his doorway. On the other side there was actually a pavement. I started to shuffle. The uninterested property owner was obviously busy as he kept going in and out of his house as I kept getting in and out of my cab to inspect how much space I had left to reverse or go forward.

Five minutes into manoeuvring, I was at about angles across the road and beginning to panic that I would be probably stuck there for ever, when a pair of fellow travellers pulled up in a smaller Volkswagon van behind. They were out instantly and guiding me as I shuffled on and eventually ended up facing the way I had come - up on the pavement to let my helpers just squeeze passed.

With more shuffling round the corner again, I drove on - just wishing to escape. I did eventually go along the little harbour front, which was very attractive, and then up through more narrow streets chasing car park signs (car being the operative word).

Oh no! Another impossible corner. I could not seem able to make it and was trying to reverse out of the predicament, wondering where on earth I was going to go, when the driver of a van that had pulled up behind came up to ask me that very question. "I just want to find a car park, but I cannot reach that one," I said pointing up the narrow street to where one was visible. He said he too was a stranger to the town, but thought I could make the corner. With his help I did.

I gratefully took to foot, once parked, and after a bit of exploring and a light lunch in a harbour front cafe, took off (after yet more tortuous manouevring) for Lands End. The winding drive along the coast was somewhat of a let-down. The villages were plain and unkempt, there was a frequent smell of cabbages -there were crops of cauliflowers in some fields - and the road was often mucky, sometimes seeming to go right through farmyards. At one point it was raining muck - in fact coming shooting over the hedge from a farmer doing what a farmer does with muck. Only it was going beyond the bounds of his field and there was no way for me to go to doge it!

I was just thinking it was lucky there was not much traffic on this single lane track when suddenly I was confronted with the absurd sight of a huge Volvo touring coach coming towards me, the driver busy giving a commentary into a microphone to his elderly passengers, as though they were passing the Houses of Parliament, or the Eiffel Tower. I had to reverse gingerly to a passing place and it was probably as well I did not hear what he was telling his old dears.

I was looking forward to Lands End, thinking romantically there might be a bench to sit on at the tip of England to sit and contemplate and stare out at the ocean to the cries of seagulls. What I was not expecting was a kind of Brighton Pier on land, or rather a sophisticated mini Disneyland village with all the commercial trappings. I joined a queue of coaches and a few cars to a gate where £2 was demanded of me. This allowed me into all the exhibitions, including one - I must admit - quite impressive experience, telling the story of the sea, the ships it had claimed and the smuggling that went on. We were bombarded with thundering sounds, blown by artificial wind, engulfed in mist, sprayed with sea water, dazzled by blinding tights and entertained with all sorts of visual effects, such as models of people seeming to come to life or ships coming to grief and by film and slides shown on a huge panoramic screen;

There were also museums, a farm as it used to be, the obligatory photographer with his own special Lands End signpost, eating places, a very smart hotel and of course the ubiquitous gift shops. And, oh yes, you could walk around and see the very land's end. Only it was dismal and cold - and, oh, so unromantic.

Back to my lesson for the day. I drove back along some of the southern coast, going first through the very pretty harbour town of Looe. The roads were wide enough there, so I decided to try the famous little village of Polperro. Big mistake. The streets were made just for a horse and small cart, if that. Even with the help of a passerby, I was unable to get around one corner without scraping, and thus scratching, the motorhome's large plastic double-glazed picture window. "You'll have wished you hadn't come," said my helper. Erm, yes....

Campsite that night was just south of Exeter, the Kennford International Caravan Park, with each individual pitch surrounded with its own hedge. Plenty of privacy! Fee: £9 - expensive, but it was right on the route, there are not many open at this time of year and I needed electric hook-up to make sure all my batteries were charged up.

Friday 16th March

A gentle run along the quiet A30, past - but not, unfortunately because of time, through - the ancient towns or cities of Sherborne. Shaftesbury and Salisbury.

Arrived edge of London about teatime and queued, as is common before the onset of the infamous cones, on both the M4 and the M25, where I dropped off a couple of smelly young hitchikers (they'd been sleeping rough at Glastonbury) picked up 40 miles back. And I just passed the 1,000 miles mark done so far on this trip.

Campsite: The Camping and Caravan Club site at Chertsey, convenient to pick up my daughter from her Halls of Residence before heading up the boring Al for home. Cost: £3.62.

Miles covered: 1,403.
Fuel used: 272 litres.
Cost: £141.
Miles per gallon: 28.6

Next - our first forays across the Channel.

These articles were originally posted to the Motorhome List. They appear here, with the addition of the photos, with the kind permission of the author, Tim Sinclair.