I was offered a choice of destinations for my camper van holiday with the
family: Germany or Sardinia. I said to my wife I fancied Germany. She said
she wanted to go to Sardinia. Guess where we went?
Not that it made much difference. There was us, a retired butcher from
Nijmegen, and a French couple, and pretty much everyone else in Sardinia in
a camper van was German. And because our van had a Munich numberplate, they
assumed we were German too, which was fine, now that after the World Cup the
English have decided to like the Germans again, but became irritating when
they still insisted we were German even after we’d told them we weren’t. “Aber,
Sie sind Deutscher!” one man kept shouting at me, “Sie
kommen aus München!”
Those Germans, my goodness, they love their vans, their Joxys, Eura Mobils,
Carthagos and Hobby Excellents. They buy the biggest model, 25, 30, 1,000ft
long, and then pile them high with satellite dishes, televisions, barbecues,
bikes, kayaks, fridge freezers and so much cabling they could probably have
stayed in Düsseldorf and still been plugged in overlooking the Med. They
would pull up, the whole family would leap out and in a well- rehearsed blur
of activity, they’d be tucking into a five-course dinner ten minutes later.
Luckily, the Germans couldn’t have been more helpful in showing us, total
van novices, what to do.
There was a lot to learn. I felt I’d just about got the hang of the van by the
time we had to come home. Well, I’d got the hang of it stationary; the hang
of driving the thing was still elusive. Halfway through the week I was
backing out of a campsite and bashed in a door on a tree that had no right
to be there. That made me a bit nervous and so, within miles of the airport
drop-off, I clipped a crash barrier on an unexpectedly tight turn.
One of the ironies of a mobile home, we found, is that they actually make you
less mobile. Aside from the classic VW and one or two other mostly US
conversions, your traditional camper van is a big, boxy unwieldy thing
unsuitable for anything much below a main road. If I never see the narrow
streets of Cabras again, scene of an epic 85-point turn, I won’t be unhappy.
The urge to get where you are going and then stay put is strong. Or maybe
I’m just a rubbish driver.
We flew into Alghero, a pleasant old walled town, probably the nicest town we
saw on Sardinia, although we saw less than a third of the island, which is
bigger than you think — we covered 360 miles (620km). It was good to be back
in Italy. Our first evening, we saw one chap, he’d never see 50 again, shiny
white suit with bolero jacket, shirt undone, medallion, you get the picture.
He looked . . . fabulous, in the way only Italians can.
This was our children’s first taste of the Med. They liked what they found,
especially the food. “This spaghetti bolognese tastes even nicer than proper
spaghetti bolognese,” said my son. The Italians are famous for their food, I
explained. And their football, singing and organised crime, said my wife.
Finding a site just out of town, we secured a pitch and took stock. Various
dramas with gas cylinders, fridge catches, retractable steps, fold-down beds
and tables that turned into other beds ensued, none of them pretty. A camper
van is like a small boat: everything has to be in its place or your life
falls to bits. “It’s a perfect holiday for someone with obsessive compulsive
disorder,” said my wife. “You’re all right then,” I said. She laughed and
told me I’d put my sunglasses down in the wrong place.
You have to renegotiate the division of labour in these situations, otherwise
you’ll spend the entire week arguing. Either that or you check into a hotel,
and that would have felt like failure. Nicola and I got to about Wednesday
before we reached a modus vivendi: she would be in charge inside
(beds, fridge, clothes storage, etc) and she would be in charge outside,
too, except that I would do the actual labour there, under supervision.
Within this new regime, Sam, 9, and Rachel, 7, shouldered their usual roles.
Daughter to back up mother and laugh at father whenever the need arose, son
to come half-heartedly to father’s defence if he sensed a display of male
solidarity might result in an increase in his food supply, as in, “Come on,
son, let’s leave them to it and go to the bar” — “Does that mean I can have
an ice-cream?”
Everything hinges on establishing your preferred van etiquette. The etiquette
of our van was for Sam and I to be put out during the day, like dogs, and be
allowed in only at night with the greatest reluctance. But then I kept
breaking things and he kept locking himself in the lavatory, so fair enough.
Sleeping, which had been my main concern, funnily enough worked out fine. You
have to go to bed at the same time, the kids late, the parents early, but
there’s not a lot of entertainment on Sardinian campsites in any case. Those
places were as quiet as the grave. And almost as dark, lit only by the low
glow of a hundred TV screens, which tend to be turned off at 9.30, when the
Germans go to bed. I like quiet and dark, so that was fine.
I’m sounding moany, but once domestic equilibrium was restored, we had a good
time. I can’t say that Sardinia has much to recommend it beyond the weather,
the beaches and the well-documented attractions of the Italian way of life,
not least their uninhibited delight in other people’s small children. But to
be fair to Sardinia, the holiday became much more about the van than about
the country.
Still, we managed five sites in seven nights — La Mariposa, near the airport;
Camping Spinnaker on the west coast; Porto Rodondo on the Costa Smeralda;
Camping Capo D’Orso in the far north, which was very good; and the best of
all Torre Argentina, near Bosa, a friendly, hippyish, pleasingly primitive
site right on the beach on the west coast. Sadly we didn’t make it to
Buggerru, which I had wanted to visit for obvious reasons.
Mostly our energies were directed towards the next site, the next pitch, the
next hook-up, the next supermercato, leaving little time for
exploration. I really ought to go back, maybe even in a camper van — this
time with a chauffeur.
NEED TO KNOW
Getting there: Robert Crampton flew from Stansted to Alghero
with Ryanair (0871 2460000, www.ryanair.com). Fares start at £25.99 return.
Getting around: Motorhome Bookers (020-7193 2873,
www.motorhomebookers.com) offers a week’s rental of a four-berth vehicle
from £336.
Useful website: www.italiantourism.com.
WHEELS DEALS
Other motorhome holiday rentals:
New Zealand: Maui, 020-7569 3075, www.maui-rentals.com.
United States: Cruise America, 0870 5143607,
www.cruiseamerica.com.
South Africa: Bobo Campers, 00 27 11 395 4621,
www.bobocampers.com.
Australia: Britz, 020-7569 3075, www.britz.com.
