by Myke Kirkham-Jones, keeper of snacks, driver of dreams, dodger of dodgy loos
Thursday: The Calm Before the Cramp
It was a glorious Thursday morning. The birds were chirping, the sun was trying its best to cosplay as July, and Happy Little Place (our beloved motorhome, or “Moho” to her friends) was gleaming like a silver-clad space shuttle ready for take-off. Newbury Showground was calling — our first show of the year! Around 100 miles all along the M4. Easy. Breezy. Moho squeezy.
Packing commenced with military precision. Tea, check. Biscuits, check. Milk, check. Jo’s ten jumpers “just in case”, check. By 10am, the cupboards were groaning and I was grinning.
By 4pm, we arrived. Blue skies? Gone. Sunshine? History. Welcome to greyskiesville, population: us. The temperature had nosedived to a cheek-nipping 12 degrees, and the once promising field now resembled a moody battleground — damp grass, long queues for water, and no electric hook-up in sight.
We were parked next to a giant marquee which, we imagined, would provide excitement, laughter, and possibly a thumping bass-line through thin motorhome walls.
With curiosity (and thermals) in hand, we explored. We found the toilets. Then wished we hadn’t. Cramped. Niffy. Splattered. I’ll spare the details, but suffice to say, Jo turned around faster than a politician facing a tough question. Back to HLP. Tea and an early night were the only sensible decisions.
Friday: Bobbing Heads and Bouncing Tempers
Morning greeted us with a slight reprieve — some sky was actually blue! Birds chirped. People chirruped. Jo chirped about breakfast. All was good.
By 11am, the site was heaving. From my lofty 6ft+ vantage point, all I could see was a sea of heads bouncing like enthusiastic apples in a very full bobbing tub. The stalls stretched across three grand avenues, each a glittering showcase of outdoor gadgets, collapsible whatevers, and solar-powered nonsense you never knew you needed until you absolutely did.
We were after a water container — not too big, just enough for several brews. Coffees first. Survival second.
Eventually, hot, tired, and not just a little grumpy, we reached an ice cream van.
“Two 99s, please!” Jo said.
“That’ll be £8,” came the reply.
“EIGHT?!”
“No flake discount?”
Apparently not.
With wounded wallets and sticky fingers, we wandered back via the on-site shop for milk, then collapsed into HLP for some mindless TV and comforting coffee. Dragon’s Den was on. It was the perfect antidote to over-enthusiastic salespeople trying to flog tent pegs with lasers.
Saturday: Temptation Avenue and the Fatal Peek
Saturday dawned like a smug postcard — clear blue skies, temperatures hovering around 19 degrees, and every joint in our bodies reminding us of Friday’s folly.
This time, we took it easy. Meandering. Window shopping. That sort of thing. Then, we did it — we crossed the line. The line from just looking to maybe let’s just pop in and have a peek.
The very moment we stepped into that Chausson, I felt it. Not just the floor flexing beneath my boots, but the gravitational pull of change. HLP, bless her, had served us well — but at 6.5 metres and with a bed that required a mountaineering degree, we were both thinking it: she just wasn’t cutting it anymore.
We found ourselves talking to a small husband-and-wife dealership team. They had a Chausson that ticked boxes. Interest was expressed. Their valuation chap came over for a peek at HLP.
I legged it ahead. Jo had… well, let’s just say her personal items were scattered liberally about. Bras. Pants. Possibly a very cheeky pair of socks. Not what you want a stranger clocking when judging resale value.
Now, I’ve studied body language. The chap practically screamed, “Not interested!” before his lips even moved. The moment I mentioned the van was booked into a garage soon, his soul seemed to leave his body. “I’ll crunch some numbers,” he muttered. “I’ll be in touch.”
Sure you will, mate.
We spent the rest of the day lounging in the sun, researching like MI5. HLP’s fate was sealed — and she didn’t even know it.
Sunday: The Adria Awakening and the Plot Thickens
We went back to the Chausson lot, hopeful. The dealer bloke’s spine, however, had melted into a pool of excuses. “It’s not a popular van,” he said. “Static bed’s not trendy.”
Translation: Can’t be bothered.
Fine.
Next, we wandered into another dealership pitch, MohoGo. Met Tim. Lovely chap. Honest. Balding (which I respect). He told us gently: “You’re not getting your money back.” Fair but harsh, it had only been last August that we bought “Happy Little Place”. But then came a twist…
“What are you after?” he asked.
“Spacious. Island bed. New-ish.”
“Oh, like that one?” he pointed.
Behind a velvet rope like some motorhome deity stood an Adria Matrix Supreme 670DC. We’d assumed it was sold. Turns out — it was a competition prize that the winner didn’t want.
Their loss. Our jackpot.
Tim passed us to Stuart, who took us on a tour. I felt it in my bones — this was our new travel companion. Tick. Tick. Tick. Every box.
Except…
Manual gearbox.
Compromise accepted.
We shook hands. It was done. Our future lay in the luxurious belly of the Adria. We were buying a new motorhome.
The Long Goodbye
Sunshine bathed everything as we packed up for the drive home. We returned HLP to her storage unit with misty eyes and a final whispered, “Thank you.” She had been our shelter, our adventure, our safe space. But change was calling.
Driving home in the car felt odd. We were Moho-less — at least temporarily.
As we reached the apartment, spirits high and minds buzzing, I spotted something.
The letterbox.
It was open.
It was broken into.
Cue ominous music.
What we thought would be a simple goodbye and happy hello was now careening into darker territory: fraud, family feuds, and the curious case of the credit report.
Stay Tuned for Chapter 2…
In our next gripping installment: “From Motorhome to Mayhem: Adria Dreams and Admin Nightmares”, we dive into finance fiascos, credit chaos, and whether a kettle really can be considered essential documentation. No