Pulling onto the site is oddly satisfying, like finding a parking spot right outside the supermarket door when you’re desperate for milk. The entrance is unassuming, but once you’re through, it’s a sudden exhale of stress. You see other campers already lounging with a cuppa, looking smug in their little canvas kingdoms, and you think, “That’s going to be me in twenty minutes.” The ground is flat, the pitches are generous, and for a moment, you forget you still have to level the caravan with those plastic ramps that never work perfectly on the first go.
The wardens here are the kind of people who wave cheerfully even when you’ve just reversed into a bush. They’re not the strict “rules are rules” type; they’re the “rules are guidelines, but please don’t run over the peg” type. One of them even helped me untangle my awning, which is like asking someone to solve a Rubik’s cube while blindfolded. I nearly offered them a medal, but I think their reward was just watching me not cry.
