February Glamping – it’s a thing.

It was only a few years ago I would have shuddered at the very thought of sleeping anywhere that didn’t involve bricks and mortar.

Squeamish and precious to the nth degree, my mum nicknamed me Margo years ago (see 70s sitcom The Good Life – my blogs are nothing if not for the lover of all things vintage)…

And so now the fact that I camp and I glamp astonishes nobody more than me (maybe fractionally less than it does my mother).

Camping in February is a touch too far and so in a very ‘me in Dec 2016’ fashion, when we saw 2017 in, in a pod, I remembered that I survived sleeping in a wooden box once before and so decided to give it another go.

My partner in crime and I chose Stanley Villa Farm, Fishing and Camping as the location for our February escapade. I say we, it was my Valentines present to him

Nothing says I love you like a night in a field in February

The added appeal to Stanley Villa was its proximity to where I grew up on the Fylde Coast meaning

1. Nostalgia
2. A return to that lovely sea air
3. I had several options for a bed for the night, should I find my inner Margo and need rescuing by family.

Situated in quiet countryside, Stanley Villa is positioned by a beautiful lake (pond?) where free fly fishing is offered for those inclined.

The pods were the prettiest I’d seen, with charming little carved windows and each one provided with a firepit.

Each comes equipped with two wooden beds and mattresses, bedding must be supplied by oneself.

I think some were provided with BBQs too but we didn’t look further into that – in our bid to find charcoal and matches – Charnock Richard services you suck at selling those commodities – we went to the charming Smithy Farm Shop just up the road, where we picked up firewood and a disposable BBQ.

I should add at this point, the sun was in danger of setting and so we were against the clock. Therefore whilst a BBQ was probably available and firewood definitely was available at Stanley Villa, we had to work efficiently.

That old fashioned thing ‘the box of matches’ still proving elusive – Smithy Farm Shop we still love you – we were armed with a back up lighter and settled into life at the pod…

That basically entailed me sitting in one of two chairs we hired (£3 each) because we forgot ours (to say we’re supposed to be seasoned campers/glampers, we made a shocking mess of coming prepared this time round) whilst he made fire with wood (available for £5 a bag), a lighter (purchased begrudgingly from WHSmith at Charnock Richard) and sheer manliness, grr.

I also got out the champagne (I didn’t say I roughed it all the way)…

Light fading fast, we performed a speed BBQ. Me making some sort of current commitment towards Slimming World, brought out the no fun, skinny burgers and fat free bacon, dropping said fat free bacon on not dirt free floor (amateur) not long after…

Four passable burgers later (one sans bacon), we settled down to the matter in hand – sipping (glugging) our champagne and beers, whilst the fire took hold.

I’m now reminded of the facilities – a lovely communal lodge can be located next to the lake (pond?) with tables, a small kitchen area, vending machine and, most importantly, toilets/showers. All clean, all heated, all a hop, skip and a jump from the pods.

One of the things I miss about the Fylde Coast (although I should say Stanley Villa has a Preston postcode but is also near Singleton, Poulton-le-Fylde, Thornton-Cleveleys and onwards to Fleetwood in one direction, Blackpool and Lytham in the other), now living in Manchester, are the clear skies at night.

Lucky with the weather, we were treated to a largely cloudless carpet of stars as the sun set, little light pollution dimming our views…

To quote Brian Cox, we saw

Billions…of…staaaaars

(My husband does a fine impersonation if you ask him nicely. Not after the hundredth time of asking though)

I’m not a performing monkey!

(he is).

At this point I shall bitterly point out that two fellow glampers asked to borrow our precious lighter for their firepit,

We’ll bring it back!

Will you lads, will you.

Charming. I miss you lighter I owned for two hours.

Special mention to its two owners for ramping things up and using deodorant to get their firepit going.

We were freezing over night. Bloody freezing, but I won’t hold it against Stanley Villa. It was particularly cold that night and we laughed in the face of advice concerning hot water bottles.

Laugh, we did.

Laughing at 2am in the pod, we did not.

In summary, Stanley Villa provided everything needed to give good glamping, be it for a couples, friends or full-on 2.4 families (that a thing still?) with dog.

We’ll be back (not least to find that precious lighter).

All the Deets

Paris in Pictures ❤️




Morning Campers!

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…

Berlin; it was the best of times, it was the wurst of times.

(can we get past my terribly inappropriate pun in the title. I struggle to sidestep a pun and will call this a working title.)

Germany. Let’s play a game of cliches.

Here is my list:

• Sausages
• Beer
• Lederhosen
• Efficiency
• The Nazi Party (best to bring these things in early).

The thing with cliches and stereotypes is that they can both have a foundation in truth whilst also being dispelled.

The famed German efficiency? Not so much. Or perhaps too much. The former leads to an hour to get through security. The latter; a tense exchange with a barman who, having memorised your own individual order within a group setting over 2 hours ago, refuses to let you leave through the door until you pay for that one drink, regardless of what the round situation is. Thing is, I’ve experienced the first example also in Rome, Italy, the second example, similar in Manchester, UK.

Take my own country. Please. (play on the old wife joke – perhaps a bit risque but like Basil Fawlty before me, I seem a bit incapable of writing about Germany without mentioning the war) The Brits; some of us crippled in manners and social awkwardness, some as brash and loud as they come.

Moral of this seemingly tetchy and lecturey start to the blog post? As the contradictions in even our most stereotypical of national behaviours demonstrate, different nations are the same in how we differ as individuals. Yep. Puns and pop-psychology.

Let us immediately get to the musings and whimsy.

Berlin was my next destination and chapter in travel and wanderlust.

• Occasion – group trip away for a friend’s big birthday
• When – November 2016

It was a very much whistle stop visit to Berlin, the main focus and purpose to celebrate a good friend’s big 4-0.

Happy Birthday Mark!

Whilst, again, I’ve never professed to try to be a travel guide, my trip and this blog will not come close to covering what Berlin has to ‘offer’ and will again serve as an overview and general musing.

We arrived in the Alexanderplatz region of the city. As I stop to marvel the Berliner Funkturm on our way to the Mette district, my co-traveller/c0-habiter/co-human (and 3rd time visitor) regales me with tales (actually it was just one sentence) of the spike blocking of radio waves and signals. I’m immediately acquainted with my first city structure with a less than laid-back story.

Our Ibis is reassuringly Ibis-y. A little perturbing to have a workman’s legs stood on scaffolding as our view but we weren’t there to sit in an Ibis bedroom and I’m all for upcycling.

And so I experience my first Bierhaus. A veritable house of beer.

I marvel at the steins, the groups of deliriously happy men; their eyes widening as copious amounts of beer and meat are set down on the table (I don’t mean to sound disparaging or condescending, I genuinely enjoyed watching their happiness);

ah, they just look so happy to be men

I remarked to my co-human and man, who nodded with understanding, sagely replying;

they do, they do.

And then I showed myself up more than when I ordered scampi in an Indian Restaurant at the tender age of 16:

i don’t actually like beer but could I have a vodka and diet coke please? I’m really sorry

and I genuinely was. Never have I wished to be a beer fan as much as that moment. And so my diet coke was delivered in a teeny lady tankard. I tasted it and couldn’t identify the vodka and wondered just how hardcore I’d become over recent years. And then my vodka turned up in its own shot glass. I pondered whether this is just how they do a spirit and mixer in Germany, or whether it was a concept just never entertained in this finest of beer houses.

My learned co-traveller/habiter/human shared his experience of visiting the historic city and took me on a morning tour of important sites.

It was a thoughtful experience, even more so in retrospect, given recent election results. But this isn’t a political blog post/rant

no sir-ee

or even one of my old GSCE history essays. How to stick to the self-inflicted travel remit of wanderlust, without sounding trite but at the same time not getting too political is a challenge.

Sticking to facts and risking whimsy along the way, our first stop was Checkpoint Charlie. Like anywhere that you know only from history books and footage, it’s surreal to find yourself in a place of historical significance. As is often the way, McDonalds is there in all the photos, offering up the weary historian Das Big Mac.

Again, drawing no comparisons to recent election victors…

no sir-ee

I see my first glimpse of the wall remains.

And this is shortly followed by an hour of reading, education and being harrowed in one Topography of Terror. An important reminder and lesson in what has gone and from wherest it came. Hopefully this doesn’t come across as casual as a restaurant recommendation, but if you visit Berlin, I would visit here. Then maybe go for a stein or two.

A short walk away is The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. A sight from a distance, but to truly understand what the artist was doing, walk into it and feel the oppression and darkness as the tomes heighten around you.

A walk on the heavy side needs a sausage. And that’s what we did next (how seamless my journey between two stereotypes; Nazis and sausages.

Don’t be so naive and ignorant to think that all German sausages are alike. They’re regional and this is Berlin’s Currywurst.

See how it shines. See how it curls. See how it’s powdered. My co-eater’s verdict;

Yeah, really good. I’ve had bad ones – drowned in tomato sauce. This one was restrained.

Reader, please don’t think because I side-stepped the beer,that I’m an ‘egg and chips abroad’ traveller. I had a bratwurst, thank you. But it wasn’t as attractive on the eye. Yes there were chips but that’s what it came with (sense the hysterical indignation in those words).

The Brandenburg Gate came with protests in the square, posing tourists and a visit to look at the hotel where one Michael Jackson dangled his son, Blanket, over the balcony. Das loon (RIP).

As with most new places, you get your literal wanderlust in taking in your surroundings on foot, if able, and taking to the streets.

Safely signalling you across its busy roads is a little green man so popular that he has his own gift shop in the city.

weird

The city is the thing and regardless of whether you can get a good beer and great food (you can), your first visit will overwhelm and is another of those places that feels like a living, breathing museum in itself.

And when you’ve taken in those facts, those images and those remains of a different era, it welcomes you in with its hospitality, hauses and hosen.

Danke schoen Berlin