LATEST NEWS - January 3rd 2024
Early opening for Easter this year.
Now Taking Bookings for 2024 Season
Good Friday, March 29th to October 31st
In an attempt to keep all the bookings in one place please drop me an email (see the "How To Book" page) and I will reply to confirm availability and give you the info you need to send your booking fee.
Please note, I require your visit is paid for in full at least 2 weeks prior to your arrival.
Price List is updated for 2024
Please see the Price List page for up to date 2024 prices.
LATEST SCAM GOING ABOUT
Beware of fraudsters taking bookings for non-existent Caravans for hire.
We do not hire out caravans, you have to bring your own.
Do not send deposits to anyone other than me, directly, to reserve a pitch.
ALL PITCHES have electric hook-up included as standard.
The Reception Window is located at the rear of the blue/grey bungalow.
CANCELLATION & REFUND POLICY
Please note that single night bookings are required to be paid for in full at the time of booking. This payment is non-refundable.
For longer stays I require that your holiday be paid for in full, two weeks prior to arrival. It is up to you to make sure this payment is made. (Note that no refunds will be given for cancellations within 2 weeks of arrival. See explanation below)
If your payment is not received in full, 2 weeks prior to your arrival date, your booking will be subject to cancellation. (This will happen when I receive a booking request from someone else, that I cannot fill because of your booking.)
Any changes or cancellations made by you within 2 weeks of your planned arrival will incur the loss of any payments you have made, as the short notice leaves little or no opportunity to replace the booking.
However, if changes are requested more than 2 weeks prior to your expected arrival and I can accommodate these, I will be happy to transfer the payment to a new booking.
Please note that booking fees are only ever refunded in the event we are forced to close for any reason. They are not refunded if you have to cancel, for ANY reason, at ANY time.
A little tongue in cheek humour for my regular campers
31 Reasons Camping isn’t as good these days
“I’m just going outside and may be some time,” said ‘Titus’ Oates as he heroically sacrificed himself on Scott’s doomed mission to the South Pole in 1912. History doesn’t record the next words spoken, but we’re pretty sure they weren’t: “It’s just that I want to try out my new extendable marshmallow-toasting fork.”
Camping meant something rather different in those days, you see – and, arguably, something rather better. Oates, Baden-Powell and, um, Swampy would all be turning in their graves and/or sodden cotton sleeping bags to see the damage ‘glamping’ has done to the national backbone. Hell, even modern-day mockeries like Bear Grylls would think twice before deploying a multi-armed ’mallow prong.
So here — just in case Oates should be discovered, defrosted, and want to know what the hell has happened to camping in the last century or so — are 31 reasons why he might not like the 21st-century version…
These clever little battery-powered devices are perfect for drying out wet footwear overnight. But it’s only the damp that makes our old-style leather walking boots flexible enough to contort our feet into. And a bit of trenchfoot never hurt anyone, right?
Getting lost because your destination was right on the worn fold of the OS map: no fun. Eating the Kendal Mint Cake you’d brought along as ‘emergency rations’ in case you got lost: worth it.
We’ve seen it all — these days you’re not even a glampsite if you haven’t got a four-poster with chandelier swinging gently above — and we like none of it. Repeat after us (think of it as a mantra; that will be an extra £55 per night for our ‘mindfulness package’ please): ‘It’s not camping if you can still move your neck in the morning.’
Camping is about the bare necessities, not decorations and ornaments. Such fripperies as fairy lights have no place on a tent. (Unless you’re camping at Christmas, of course, in which case good luck to you sir! We’re pretty sure none of the other luxuries on this list apply to you anyway…)
Do you think everyone wants to hear your ‘THROWBACK DISCO PARTY MEGAMIX!!!’ playlist? Correction: Do you think anyone wants to?
The proper way to chill drinks on a camping trip is by placing them in a river, while fruitlessly dangling a line in the water and sucking the end of a long grass in the manner of Huckleberry Finn.
In fact, why have you even brought wine? It’s strictly beer, cider or some unholy concoction of both when camping, please.
And it’s definitely not Prosecco. You might as well bring along cushions with ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ written on them.
The distinct lack of angry farmers
Pitching a tent in whatever fallow field you found yourself in come nightfall — and thus playing Russian Roulette with the mood of the farmer next morning — always added a certain thrill to proceedings. Not any more, mind: he’ll be beaming in at your tent door as soon as you unzip your flysheet in the AM, and pressing ‘organic locavore free-range’ eggs on you. At £15 a half-dozen.
The distinct lack of Barbara Windsor doing chest exercises in an unreliably-secured bikini
We’ve checked the archive footage, and it seems pretty clear that all camping trips pre-1970 had this.
Because nothing taught kids to appreciate the comforts of their own home like having to brave those old long-drop latrines — especially after their elder brothers had told them the apocryphal story of the small child who fell into one and died down there. (At least, we still tell ourselves it was apocryphal…).
‘…and through here is the dining area, then beyond that is the sitting room.’ One tent currently on sale at Mountain Warehouse has an ‘inner zone’, ‘outer zone’, ‘living area’ and three bedrooms, the ‘master’ one photographed with not just two beds in it, but a bedside table complete with pot plant. (Pot plants? You’re camping! If you want plants, just go out of the tent).
Same as mega-tents but even more annoying. ‘Old-school rustic vibes’, you say? Well we’re pretty sure the nomadic Mongolian steppe-dwellers of three millennia ago didn’t accessorise theirs with Elemis toiletries…
The only thing worse than waking in a tent at 4.34am with the condensation from your breath forming tiny icicles on your A-frame is waking in a tent at 4.34am with the sweat from the small of your back pooling on your bright-yellow foam Karrimat. Tents are like greenhouses when a heatwave sun strikes them in the early morning (perhaps why it’s called ‘the greenhouse effect?), and it’s all your dad’s fault for making so free with the Brut 33 spray every day of the ’60s and ’70s.
All the fun of camping but without… any of the fun of camping. Noisy, smelly, cramped, crowded, terrible acoustics, unidentifiable slurry sucking at your wellies — and all that, of course, is just the portaloos. Being stuck in the same place as a load of drug dealers and one-weekend-a-year hippies is exactly what camping was invented to get away from. You might as well bivvy down in the middle of Camden Town.
See above, then add ‘with sleep-deprived toddlers’ to the mix. Dante would need another nine-to-eleven Circles of Hell to do the idea justice.
Not, technically, new — but somehow more annoying now than they ever used to be. It’s 2024, over half a century since we put a man on the moon and 15 years since the geniuses at Twitter, I mean X! invented a way to be horrible to over 330 million people through your phone, so why hasn’t someone invented something to replace guy-ropes? Do they want us to trip over every single time we enter or leave our tent?
It’s just… swimming.
It’s just… camping.
It’s just… well, you can probably work it out. But when even ‘going for a poo behind the bushes’ has been rebranded by the marketing executives, what next? (Please don’t answer that).
Essentially the same as staying at home and cooking on your hob. Except that, even when you’re just going away for the weekend, the boot is always so full that the Flogas cannister has to fit between the legs of whoever’s sitting in the passenger seat like a great big cartoon genital-targeted timebomb. Also pizza ovens and fancy coffee machines. You’re supposed to be communing with the wild, not opening a branch of Zizzi’s.
“Come and make some ’smores with us round the campfire, kids?”
“Sorry Dad, we can’t. We’re streaming Love Island on our phones.”
If you’re eating better than you would at home, you’re either camping wrong or living the rest of your life wrong. The only times when wicker is acceptable on a trip within the British Isles are: a) the Henley Regatta; b) the Glyndebourne Festival; or c) when you’re burning Edward Woodward in a giant mannequin made of it to placate the pagan gods.
It’s bad enough having to make polite chit-chat with strangers (or, worse, becoming new best-friends-forever-for-a-fortnight with them) on any holiday. But it’s infinitely more unpleasant on a campsite, when you know your new neighbours heard every expletive word of your whispered-shout argument with the other half last night, through the barely-there canvas ‘walls’ of your tent. Never used to happen in the old days, of course, when a brisk ‘Good morning’ was the only interaction you’d have with the neighbours you’d spent the entire last week within 12 feet of.
Other people’s children
Spoilt, sulky, rude, hyperactive, malodorous, inconsiderate and uncouth. Of course we were never like that when we were kids (unless, of course, we’d had one too many Panda Pops, in which case we became all of the above, to the tartrazine-crazed power ten).
Your own children
See above, only you have to share a tent with them.
Breathable, wicking, self-drying, climate-controlled, comfort-engineered, microfibre, Bluetooth-enabled smartwear is all very well, but it will never feel as good as that ‘Campers do it on the cold hard ground’ t-shirt from 1982 that still very nearly fits, thank you very much.
We liked having to push the tent pegs in with our bare hands. Made us feel like we’d achieved something, even if it did lead to weird stigmata-ish marks on our palms for the next couple of months.
The bastardised boules derivative is France’s worst idea since Agincourt, and only Britain’s most pretentious middle-class snobs would ever consider its silly little silver balls worth the boot space.
We weren’t making these things up; they actually exist. And while it’s true that leaning over the campfire with those pillowy pink and white treasures impaled on a short twig has cost us a few singed eyebrows over the years, we swear they taste better with a bit of burnt wood still stuck to the inside. Disagree? Fine, you can get the telescopic multi-pronged version from Amazon. Price? About £15 and your dignity…
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