ARE YOU already dreading those endless summer traffic queues, with a
trundling caravan at their head? Irritated by the ranks of caravans infesting
seaside beauty spots? Then heap the blame on the retired naval surgeon Dr
William Gor-don Stables. He was the first holiday caravanner — and he has an
estimated one million imitators in Britain alone.
Dr Stables spent the summer of 1886 travelling in a horse-drawn caravan from
his home, near Reading, to Inverness. His life at sea had left him with a taste
for nautical terms, and he described his hand-built vehicle as “a land yacht”
and christened it the Wanderer.
He wrote a best-selling book, The Gentleman Gypsy, about his trip, which
helped to popu-larise caravanning, and was a founder member of the Caravan Club,
which celebrates its centenary this year. His enthusiasm was such that I, a
caravanning novice, was tempted to follow his example and journey the length of
Britain — albeit in a modern motorhome.
But plenty has changed in the past 120 years. The admiring crowds gathering
along the Wanderer’s route to monitor the doctor’s progress have gone, and so,
it seems, have the local lairds queuing up to offer the traveller hospitality
and a stopover site in the grounds of their stately homes. Caravanning has lost
its cachet.
Even planning such a trip isn’t as exciting as Dr Stables made it sound. His
caravan was a mahogany monster weighing a couple of tons, with a crew and
accessories. Mine was a borrowed and far from spacious motor-caravan.
Then there was the matter of companions. Dr Stables settled first on
Peablossom and Cornflower, the horses charged with dragging his land yacht along
the rutted roads of the time. A groom had to be engaged to look after them.
Apparently the master needed a bit of looking after, too — he was accompanied by
his valet, John. A giant Newfoundland dog called Hurricane Bob stood guard and
the crew was completed by a singing cockatoo named Polly.
When it came to sleeping arrangements, the social niceties of the day had to
be observed. The doctor shared the caravan’s saloon with Hurricane Bob and the
cockatoo. John slept beneath the vehicle, and the groom, of course, bedded down
with the horses.
Caravanners were undoubtedly rather strange back in 1886, and little has
changed. It was raining when I arrived at Henley, my starting point, but that
did not stop my neigh-bours from donning sou’-west-ers, setting up tables
outside their caravans, and serving themselves tea with slices of soggy fruit
cake.
Noisy late-night parties, and a morning queue at the toilet block, were other
hazards, but if Dr Stables could find adventure on Britain’s highways, so could
I.
I headed out of Henley with high hopes. In Pangbourne, I decided on a comfort
call at The George, where Dr Stables stopped for refreshment more than 120 years
ago. Did anyone know of the hotel’s link with the great man? “The manager’s
busy, and he’s the only one who knows about the history of this building,” said
the receptionist, dismissively. She added, as if in explanation: “We’re a Best
Western now.”
Many of the villages through which Dr Stables’s strange procession once
trundled have been bypassed by today’s roads. Others you have to practically
squeeze through: places full of tumbledown cottages, antique shops and badly
parked cars.
We stopped in the very spot where the doctor called a halt, in Burcot, and
brewed coffee. I harboured a faint hope that the owner of the stately home
opposite might pop out to offer hospitality — as his predecessor once did. In
fact, the only visitors to my little lay-by were the occupants of a police car,
and their sole offering was a demand that we move on.
There was another disappointment in Deddington, where the didactic doctor had
a bit of an adventure. He camped in a field, heard intruders around his caravan
in the night, and rushed outside with his cutlass in one hand and Hurricane Bob,
straining at his leash, in the other. He found himself facing nothing more
dangerous than a herd of cows.
Dr Stables also called in at Warwick, which now has a new statue of the
boxing hero Randolph Turpin. Next morning, beyond the red ruins of Kenilworth
Castle, blown up after the Battle of Edgehill in 1644, an attempt to emulate the
doctor’s drive to the battle site proved impossible: the access roads will not
accommodate a modern motorhome.
My 21st-century expedition arrived in York, damp and depressed. The city’s
caravan site, beside the River Ouse, would be a haven if it didn’t occasionally
disappear beneath floodwaters. York railway station suddenly took on an
unexpected allure.
Even Dr Stables got fed up when he reached Inverness, and took the train
home. I shamefacedly followed his example, promising myself that I would
complete the trip when the weather improved.
Then, on the train, I decided I wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Try this
kind of thing too often, and you could end up conversing animatedly with a
musical parrot. The Wanderer, now restored, can be seen at the National Boat,
Caravan and Outdoor Show (www.boatandcaravan.co.uk) at the NEC in Birmingham,
February 17-25, and will feature at the Caravan Club’s centenary national rally
at Blenheim Palace in May (0800 3286635, www.caravanclub.co.uk).
Caravans of love: luxury lodges and more by Dan Bennett
At Deepdale Farm in North Norfolk, choose to stay in your own tent, a
tepee or the stables’ hostel. The farm is arable, so don’t expect to be roused
by an animal chorus, but there is a local petting farm for children. 01485
210256, www.deepdalefarm.co.uk
