As I write this, I am sitting on a damp picnic bench on a steep incline of grass outside a caravan on a park in Perranporth.

Today is our last day after a Cornish school holiday vacation that has failed to live up to the expectations, whatever those expectations were, due to weather that has been as predictable as living up the side of a volcano or on a flood plain.

Only last night we ‘suffered’ storm Kathleen (who comes up with these names?). She was fearsome, ferocious and a true Karen in all but name, as we hunkered down in our Atlas Eden caravan and thanked the Lord that we were not, like those poor sods at the bottom of the field, protected from the elements by a thin strip of nylon that is as hardy as a banana in a Nutribullet blender.

We gave up on camping many years ago due to the fact that it is expensive, arduous work and ultimately, utterly rubbish. Not for us is the lugging ten tons of equipment to a sodden field to wake up sweaty with a Friesian cow attempting to eat the awning before noticing the local fox has made away with our Berghaus hiking left boot as we arrive back home the opposite of refreshed and vowing never to undertake that folly again. Then the realisation dawns that, in lieu of buying the gamut of equipment, we could easily have had the same length break in at least a 4* hotel for the same price.

But caravans? Oh, caravans, what a different kettle of fish! Now I’m not talking the touring caravans that we used to drag along behind a Mark 1 Cortina as it strained every sinew to get up the hill before four of us tried and failed to squeeze into a two berth, no, I’m talking the landed types: static caravans, the likes of which I am sitting with my back to at this very moment.

Within an hour of arriving, guaranteed both adults say something along the lines of ‘if I were single, I could happily live in one of these’ as daydreams of divorce and a life stretched out on the living area sofa seem strangely within reach.

Now as comfortable as our homes, they are but boxes on stilts, but with electric hook up and all the mod cons, bar a washing machine. The corridors between the rooms are peculiar as if they are expecting an anorexic group booking in due course, as you slide sideways towards your sleeping area and then get a sudden rush of excitement when you realise, they have squeezed in what can loosely be described as an en suite. Again, a difficult task it is to pass a bowel movement on the latrine as you slip a disc attempting to reach around for the loo roll, before banging your head on the sink as you reach down to retrieve your fallen under garments.

Still, getting into the groove, you undertake every task gingerly as it's all just, well, a little bit smaller than you're used to, be it the bed, storage areas or attempting some movement to get full cleaning purchase in the shower.

Now fully bought into the life, albeit for a few days, you think little of sitting outside in all weathers in your PJ’s, the look finished off by a pair of wellies and an oversized sea salt fisherman’s tunic frequented from a gift shop in Looe yesterday, as you then go full caravan and take a wander to the over priced, but friendly and scantily laden, club shop in your dressing gown and slippers, as the staff look at you as you do similar humans who take the same course of action in your local Co-Op.

But then, after a few days, packed up, you arrive home and realise that you really do value those creature comforts, such as a shed and a dishwasher, before the after sales texts and emails come through offering you ownership of an Eddis 500 for the knockdown price of 50 grand and 800 quid a month until your dying day…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher