Whenever I hear the name Centre Parcs, I always hear,
It’s not common you know…
…so uttered by a mother, to mine, back in the 80s, when announcing their visit to this brand new attraction.
What a tagline.
And so all these years on, it was my first visit and obviously it had a lot to stand up to (ha ha).
Spoiler – it (it? Is it an it?) is very nice. Going back the 80s, this was the era of Hi-de-Hi (actually poor example – set in the 50s, this was the height of the holiday camp era), more importantly it was the era of Butlins, Pontins and various connotations that came with that. The 90s was to bring us Haven which came in the wake of Centre Parcs?
To be honest, I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I’d never been to one – not a judgement, just a circumstance. In fact I had a rather romantic and 1970s slant on my view of the holiday camp (sitting alongside Gladys and her call to campers bing bongs); that based on the gem in the crown of 70s sit-com feature length film spin-offs, Holiday on the Buses.
Holiday on the Buses. The film that brought us Wilfred Brambell as the unlikely lothario, his arms flailing during the ballroom dancing classes, as he cackled,
‘Ave a banana…’
No, Centre Parcs was different. And, 30 years on, I got to see how.
- Occasion – Father-in-Law’s birthday
- Location – Centre Parc, Sherwood Forest, UK
- When – December 2016
It’s organised, very organised and, actually quiet?!
On a winner with the beautiful setting of Sherwood Forest, we were there at a magical time of year – the days between Christmas and New Year. Certain factions are trying to give this period a name. It’s called between Christmas and New Year and, as far as I’m concerned, still Christmas.
And, even though the festive touches such as the twinkly trees and real life reindeer were enough to make me feel like I was a little girl on Christmas Eve again, I can imagine that this feeling, and the attention to detail by Centre Parcs will translate to whichever time of year you happen to visit.
The cabins are charming. As we returned from the freezi forest temperatures, how lovely to be able to throw a log on and bask in the burning flames of the wood burner.
Each cabin was so built that you felt as alone as a cabin in the woods in another millennial horror film which will never live up to those of similar ilk from the 70s (I know, I appear to be stuck in the past of time I was barely privy to).
BARELY PRIVY.
Arriving in the dark, I was amazed to throw open the curtains (who throws curtains open. Why the hysteria? Were there even curtains? There could well have been blinds) and see the lake a stone’s throw (I didn’t thrown one. Too many of these people).
In essence, before you even address the activities you can engage in, I need people to know (I suspect the people do know – just because I’m 30 years behind in the Centre Parcs phenomenon, doesn’t mean everyone else is) that this is a cabin holiday. A lovely, relaxing, cabin holiday that also happens to have a plethora of pastimes (alliteration – there to be abused) available…
I will speak, briefly, of three.
When I was 6, I was asked what treat I would like for the summer holidays. What single toy would I like to choose to while away the days. Keep my engaged. Out of trouble. Enamoured.
A bow and arrow. I would like a bow and arrow. No amount of pretty dresses and matching ribbons in my hair would steer me away from my goal. I got that bow and arrow. (I threw in a similar left field request when I chose a stapler as an Easter treat one year, but that’s for another time.)
It was plastic and in primary colours. But I got it. And as god was my witness, I vowed that as soon as I was old enough, I would engage in real-life bow and arrowing worthy of a fictional superhero (was he fictional? Was he a superhero – never clear) as soon as I could.
Took me 30 or so years
Or so
But here I was – me and my husband, a family we didn’t know with a Dad who talked too much, and in cliches, and a group of hoorahs who were keen for you to know they’d done this before.
Upshot was I was haphazard (I either hit bullseye or nowhere near the board (board?) and I’m blaming closing the wrong eye, but I enjoyed it (after I’d stopped sulking), and that evening googled my nearest Archery Club. My google history is full of aspiration, knee-jerk intentions and stuff I can never explain), but know this, Knutsford Archery – I’m coming to get you. At some point. Hopefully.
Speaking of which, another of my aspirations and intentions (this time, we’re talking circa September 2014), is golf and so Centre Parcs brought the driving range to me and I will have you all know that only 5 balls out of 60, did I swing wildly at and miss the first time. I wear that stat like a rubbish badge of honour until I get to a point where I actually have a handicap – no matter how terrible (Altrincham Golf Club – I’m coming to get you. At some point. Hopefully.
Ten-pin bowling was ten-pin bowling and fun and also glow in the dark! It glowed in the dark. I bowled whilst sipping on a Bakewell Tart cocktail and felt fabulous, people. I did not give dirty looks to a 4 year old on the next lane who kept sitting on my favourite ball, thus rendering it out of my reach on more occasions than made me happy. I did not bemoan a child and keep looking at him, I’m bigger than that.
Of course I’m not
Less strenuous and altogether lovely were the facials that my mother-in-law and I both had, one afternoon. Not before some farcical goings on worthy of both Hi-de-Hi and Holiday on the Buses put together.
Every step we made a mess of – we couldn’t find the changing rooms, the lockers, the robes, the towels, the treatment rooms (wandering back out into Reception in our dressing gowns, if you please, at one point) and, as the big finale, one of us lost our pants.
Lost pants will never not be funny. The most comedic of all the clothing parts lost.
Making our way between archery, facials and the like, we, as many did, used bikes as well as our legs. With cycle stands at every activity, restaurant, store and cabin, seeing all the bikes lined up was reminiscent of Amsterdam.
And everyone; man, woman, child, annoying Dad, hoorah, dog and duck, looked to be having a brilliant, brilliant time.
As did I.
Ho-de-ho!
EPILOGUE
It has to be said, all the aforementioned positives come at a price but in the wake of my return, I have noticed that Butlins appears to have rebranded itself – Butlins by the Sea – cries out its new campaign. ‘Ave a banana…
memoirs of a laura 
