Ode to Swifty
There’s nothing sexy about caravanning, I’ll give you that. And I am going to make no attempt to challenge the common view of caravanning and those who caravan (verb: to caravan) as I know I’m fighting a losing battle.
Caravans are the subject of my blog today because I love them (Am I the only one who cries out “Nooooooo!” when they blow them up on “Braniac”?) But also because we have taken delivery of the successor to Swifty (RIP) who sadly died last year.
Here’s Swifty on her last outing with all our chums at The Tartan Heart Festival.
“Wanna buy some pegs?”
I’m not going to go on about Swifty’s replacement. It wouldn’t be right. I am going to use this blog as a eulogy to Swifty and at the end I want a moment’s silence for Swifty who was sold for parts just a couple of months ago.
Like Wilfred Owen’s* poem, there will always be a piece of Swifty in all those caravan that her parts go on to heal. And for me Swifty will live on, in our memories, in our photos of the kids growing up, in the washing machine box that my friend turned into a toy caravan for her little girl and called “Swifty 2”.
We first got Swifty when John suddenly remembered that his mate D had bought a caravan to use when surfing. Ha! I mean not to surf with, that would be ludicrous (but “narly, dude”!). No D and his brother bought a caravan so that they could use it to change in/sleep in when they went surfing. Once D had kids he didn’t have time for surfing, so stashed Swifty at a mate’s farm.
Swifty rotted forgotten for 3 years until suddenly the Flying Martinis were in possession of Glastonbury tickets (the last time I was ever successful on the phone lines, bah!) and were looking for a more comfortable way to enjoy the festival now that we had a bairn in tow. And it came to pass that D gave us Swifty to keep forever and ever, since he had forgotten about her anyway and wanted rid.
Now, I won’t go into the Glastonbury story as it’s too long and painful to tell here (and it doesn’t show Swifty in a good light since her bottom fell off before we even left for Glasto). But once Swifty was serviced and fixed up, we went all over the place with her. We went (at low speeds) to more festivals, to St Andrews where we had a fight with the bastard caravan manager – boycott his place!!! We went to Mull but had to leave early as we had hit full on midge season, which was like something out of the Bible. We went to Crieff for the hottest summer Scotland has ever known and we went to the Lake District which we discovered is almost exclusively a pensioner holiday destination. We had a great time wherever Swifty took us.
Swifty’s last outing was to the Belladrum Tartan Heart Festival where John and the boys were playing the fringe (they play the actual festival this year…come see them!). So whilst the rest of the tent dwellers suffered drunken teenagers falling/puking into their tents, getting their stuff nicked out of the their tents or like our pals, had their tent temporarily used as Police HQ whilst an inquiry was made into a stabbing (!), we slept warm, safe and sound in Swifty along side our Volkswagen van and trailer tent dwelling compatriots.
It was on cleaning Swifty after Belladrum that we noticed that her troublesome bottom had let her down once again and the rot had set in. We took her to the caravan doctor , but the prognosis was grim, and there was no sure fire chance of complete recovery. So we decided to commit caravan euthanasia, but only once all vital caravan organs were donated to others with a real chance of survival. She did not die in vain (and we got £120 for her bits).
So caravanning; not sexy, but once you’ve tasted the delights of going to a festival with a caravan, you’ll never go back.
I’ll introduce our new lady when we’ve tried her out proper (bet you can’t wait!). Mean time, if you are stuck behind a caravan in your car, don’t hate us. We’re GOOD PEOPLE.
*Or was it the other one, Sassoon? I dunno, was off that day.
