Camping (lost and found)

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My father bought a second-hand caravan a few months before I was born and was well proud of it. He got it when my sister Beckie was a toddler, and my mum was pregnant with me. Besides, the caravan thing was kind of in the genes as my grandparents had always been camping maniacs. So my father was raised putting tent poles up and taking them back down again all over Europe, every summer.

He is always telling funny anecdotes from his childhood holidays. They usually end up with him cracking up, as he gets to the part where he describes the look of utter surprise on my grandparents’ faces, the time they were having breakfast outside their tent in East Germany; and suddenly realised nobody in the site was wearing any clothes at all. Apparently, they packed up on-the-spot and left with some lame excuse about my father having a temperature, and he was made to keep a thermometer in his mouth in the passenger seat as my mother drove out, for enhanced believability.

My mother has never shared quite the same level of enthusiasm for the camper’s way of life. She always tended to moan about stuff, like sand in the bedsheets and communal toilets, saying to my dad,“James, when you brag on back at home about the luxuries of camping, like exotic Mediterranean beaches and the pinewood trees, you never remember to mention all the downsides: like having to go to chop logs right next to complete strangers, with paper-thin parting walls, and all those awful smells”. I must say I did agree on that one (I once held tight for three days running rather than facing some particularly bad loos in Barcelona). To this day my mother still blames her recurring back aches on having been “forced to sleep for three weeks with a massive pregnant belly on a flimsy caravan mattress as hard as an effin plank of wood”. At this, my father inevitably flies into a temper compelled to defend his caravan and says, “Firstly, Louise, true campers don’t’ swear.” At which point my mother reminds him straight away about the time he hit his thumb with the hammer while planting tent pegs in Antibes, and of the Welsh woman opposite us covering her seven year old daughter’s ears and running off with a look of fierce disapproval (his nail is still a bit brownish).“Secondly”, my father continues pretending to be unaffected, “our first caravan’s bed was as soft as a baby’s bottom. We even conceived John on it (my younger brother).” At this point, John, followed by me and Beckie, usually leaves the room so we have never heard what our father’s third argument is.

But nowadays these reserves of my mother towards camping are just a façade. She does maintain her fierce objection to ever going anywhere near the chemical loos and has thus been cunningly excused from the connected duties for the past twenty-seven years. But apart from that, I know for a fact she couldn’t live without her summer weeks of campsite lunches with the Sturgeons and the Chapmans, my parents’ loyal travel companions. My mother laughs herself silly gossiping away with Sue Sturgeon and Pam Chapman (they have a common obsession about the Royal family, especially Harry who they have a crush on). While my father barbecues away with Stewart and Dave talking about Brentford F.C. and why “they should never have moved to the Stadium of Light”.

They all end up invariably drunk by 3 p.m. (the first week, on British lager from home, the second on local wine which they complain about). They usually carry on like that all day till someone complains about the noise. They bring out the poker cards and stay quiet for about 10 minutes, then they burst into laughter and someone shouts something.

Well, you get the picture: they know how to enjoy themselves; I suppose.
They even got kicked out of a campsite in France for being too loud. My father brags about it like it’s a huge merit.

Of course, nowadays us kids do our own stuff in the summer and don’t go on holiday with our parents anymore. Well up until now, as for me.

Beckie, who has made it as a doctor (something to do with wonky feet), thus my parents’ immense pride and joy, is getting married next year to her boyfriend Dickson. Well, ok, Richard, but that’s what John and I call him in a silly voice when Beckie’s not around.

They live in Wales, where they met at Uni. Dickson refers to himself as an Organic Farming Entrepreneur. He got offended when my father introduced him to the Chapmans as a “farmer”. Dickson and his friend Robert, a pipe-smoking bloke who wears a massive beard, have reconverted an old windmill near Cardiff. The reason John and I call Beckie’s boyfriend Dickson is that we have this stupid in-joke (which Beckie secretively giggles to, I’ve noticed) whereby we refer to him and his bearded friend as “Dickson and Robson”, after a grotty scaffolding company based near our house, called “Dickson Robson & Mott”. Childish, I admit. My mother had a right go at us last Christmas when I drunkenly asked Dickson “How Mr Mott was keeping these days”.

The windmill takes up all of Dickson’s time: so, this summer, he and Beckie are not going on holiday together. He wanted Beckie to stay at home doing the mill up with him and Robert. She said “No way I’m spending my last unmarried holiday on a pigsty.”They do have one pig – Derek, as in Derek Trotter from Only fools and Horses - and also like a pig’s trotter. But they’re both vegetarian so it’s an ornamental pet. It sometimes sleeps on their bed. So Beckie flew off to Valencia with her girl friends for a week. She told my mother, “It wasn’t a quarrel, Richard insisted I should go and have fun, he’s happy to stay and paint the windmill with Rob. He so understands my need for freedom”. Maybe, but I also think Beckie doesn’t allow Dickson to smoke weed and he’ll take the chance to go off to Cardiff with his friend. But it’s true, Dickson can’t wait to finish working on the mill. His plan and dream is to open a Bed & Breakfast before the wedding.

As for my younger brother John, we’re never quite sure what he’s up to. My mother said something about him travelling to Vietnam with Graham, his best friend; they study Philosophy and Maths together in Edinburgh. I saw from a recent WhatsApp picture that they have both grown a moustache. In the caption John pointed out, “But I wear it ironically”.

As for me, it seems this year’s holidays aren’t going to be packed with fun. I capitulated and after nine years agreed to join my parents on holiday. I got here the other day, in their campsite in Jesolo, Italy.

It was my mother who insisted I should fly over, when she heard my gloomy voice on the phone. After a few excruciating minutes of interrogating me about the reasons for my break-up with Sarah, during which I kept to my “We just had a fall out, enough questions”, she said, “Right, look, you’re out of a job, you’ve been dumped – sorry darling, I meant broken up, and you’re not planning any holidays at all. Come over to Jesolo and blow away the cobwebs. You sound a bit lost, the Italian sun will cheer you up no end.” I said no, obviously.

“That would really be the last straw”, I thought.

So I’m not really sure what train of thought I followed after the phone call because I somehow decided to bite the bullet and here I am. White as a chunky mozzarella cheese on the beach on my own, checking my messages.

Nothing from Sarah. Only stupid texts in old chat groups from school, with pictures of drunken people clubbing and partying. I’m not sending any pictures from here.

I’d already been to this place with my family when I was a kid. I must have been about four. As I walked around the little paths earlier and went to the campsite shop to get a pair of flip flops, I recognised the site and it all started coming back. Well not all, I was four at the time, but I suddenly remembered about the time I got lost.

My parents had parked me at the kids’ “Mini Club” and were having an after-lunch nap. John would have been in his pram sleeping. Beckie would have been on the swings or making bracelets with a friend, or something like that.

I was ever so shy and would not speak. The entertainers, as they called the teenagers looking after us kids, had finally managed to get me involved in making a paper Native American crown of feathers. I sat quietly alongside the other children, mostly German, and endeavoured to make my paper crown. When I had finished, I was so proud of it that I got up and rushed off immediately, unnoticed by the entertainers  I wanted to show my parents what I’d made. But I got lost after a couple of turns along the little streets, and I panicked. I remember this feeling of being totally lost, and not having a clue what to do. I started crying and asking passers by for “mummy”. After what seemed ages my swimming teacher, Maestro Raffaele spotted me as he walked nearby. He crouched next to me with his long curly blond hair dangling near my cheeks and said “Hey, che succede, piccolo? Are you lost?”. He took my hand and took me back to my parents. I suppose he found out where our plot was by asking someone from the lobby, or maybe he asked around.

My parents looked a bit startled at seeing me appear like that. I felt an enormous relief. They were dozing in their reclining chairs and stood up an gave me a little hug then thanked maestro Raffaele. They didn’t make a big deal of it and complimented me on the paper crown. I’d forgotten about that until today.

I’m sitting under the umbrella on the beach, watching the sparkling waves in front of me, as I’m cradled by the breeze. I have decided not to look at my phone messages for at least twenty-four hours. And I’m trying not to think about the other night’s parting “conversation” with Sarah at her flat. About all that shouting (by both), about the three smashed cups of tea (by her), about the complaining (by the neighbours banging on the door at 2.20 a.m.)

Or about the glass swan that ended up on the floor (by me, but that was an accident - I caught it with my elbow whilst trying to dodge a flying teacup). Now she’s in France with that prat anyway, so up theirs.

Who cares, let her off the hook. It was meant to end like that. Whatever.

Hey, at least I don’t have to go along to that Justin Bieber fan rally she had gone on about. Or to that jewellery making class. And I am finally exempt from taking her Chiwawa for midnight duties in the rain (the dog, I mean).

That’s the way, Henry: think positive.
Oh, God, and look at that bottom. And that one.

I must look really cool: on holiday with my parents. Let’s just hope nobody ever hears of this.

To be fair, though, last night wasn’t so bad. I’m not saying this holiday might be a blessing in disguise, but yeah, I laughed out loud for the first time since I can remember. Well, since last week when John sent me that video of Johnathan Ross asking David Cameron if he did or did not ever fantasise thinking of Margaret Thatcher (not the exact words used).

My parents are going to great lengths to include me in the atmosphere and in the barbecues with the Chapmans and the Sturgeons. My father was beaming as he ushered me towards the grill. He said, “Thank God you’re not a veggie like Richard”, to the mention of whom I noticed Stuart and Dave raising their eyebrows and rolling their eyes. My mother even tried to interest me in the latest gossip about the Royal Family, and after two beers I found myself agreeing it is a scandal that Meghan Markle was not included in Harry’s official birthday photos.

I asked my mother if she remembered about the time I got lost when I was four. She screamed, “Oh yes! Poor you! Our lost and found. Well, here you are. Have another pint”.

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