A travelogue where the kettle is always on, the humour always dry, and the motorhome always on the brink of collapse.
Prologue: A Fond Farewell and a Foolish Hello
So Happy Little Place has left us! Not in the “she ran off with a milkman” sort of way, but in the “she’s someone else’s problem now” sort of way. Happy Little Place the First has been traded in, polished up, and no doubt is currently seducing some poor unsuspecting couples who think that a permanently fixed bed is a good idea. Bless ‘em.
And in her place? The shiny new Bürstner Harmony Line 744. Bigger. Flashier. More room to argue without tripping over each other. We’d done it – we’d levelled up. Enter Happy Little Place II (HLP-II), or, as we now affectionately call her: Delilah. Because her number plate says YY, and honestly, once you’ve sung “Why, why, why, Delilah” at the top of your lungs while holding a cassette box of fuses, there’s no going back.
Act One: The Grand Tour (of the Furniture)
Picture this: a semi-U lounge at the back, upholstered in something designed to repel both gravy and Labrador hair. A TV in a cabinet – because nothing says luxury like EastEnders on the A40. The bed? A theatrical drop-down affair from the ceiling, like a panto dame making her entrance. “It’s behind you!” (and indeed, it usually is).
Move along and you’ll find the kitchen, perfectly positioned so one of us can cook while the other asks, “Is it me or is there less room in here than the last one?” Opposite is the shower and loo, compact yet functional. And finally, the dinette: roomy enough for four, and allegedly able to sleep them too, though how anyone converts the thing without a PhD in Origami is beyond me.
We were in love. In love with Delilah. We should have known it wouldn’t last.
Act Two: The Maiden Voyage of Doom
Norwich! The plan was Norwich. Three days of luxury at a motorhome show. Electricity, comfort, smugness. We’d even booked a pitch with a hookup, because nothing says “living the dream” like boiling a kettle without worrying about the battery.
So off we went: M4, M25, A1. All smooth. And then came the A414. Oh, the A414. Scene of our first tragedy. 4:30pm, rush hour, traffic nose to bumper. And then – silence. Not the peaceful silence of countryside birdsong, but the silence of a Fiat engine deciding that saving the planet is less important than stranding us in the middle of a dual carriageway.
The stop-start system. Designed by an engineer who clearly hated joy. We stopped. We did not start. Behind us: horns, hand gestures, and more colourful language than you’d hear in a working men’s club on a Friday.
Cue three hours on hold to the breakdown line. Three hours! I could have crocheted a doily by then and then some as they never did answer. Meanwhile, Jo phoned the police, who arrived in force. Five of them, standing around like extras from The Bill, deciding how best to move us without making the traffic situation worse. Spoiler: impossible.
Jo then called the RAC as she already had cover on her car. The RAC did at least answer Jo’s cry for help but this was soon forgotten when the RAC offered two options: £1,000 to tow us to Norwich, or £300 for a mechanic to take a look. It was like being offered caviar or Spam fritters at motorway prices. We took the mechanic. Then the police towed us to Luton anyway, our hour to get ourselves sorted had passed and we now were charged at the cost of £260. By now, we were less motorhome owners and more contestants in a particularly cruel episode of Candid Camera.
Act Three: Industrial Estate Blues
If you’ve never spent the night in a motorhome outside a scrapyard, surrounded by circling cars and mysterious men sitting silently across the road, may I suggest you don’t? Jo and I took turns sleeping while the other stayed awake in case we were mugged for our camping chairs. It was less glamping, more The Walking Dead.
At 9am, the RAC man turned up. He turned the key. Delilah sprang to life like nothing had ever happened. Battery? Full. Alternator? Fine. Starter motor? “Bit rusty, love, but she’ll be alright.” It was like calling out a doctor only for the patient to jump up mid-surgery and start tap-dancing.
We drove straight to Highbridge without daring to switch off the engine. Bathroom stops were a military operation: one in, one out, engine still running. By the time we arrived, I’d aged ten years, and Jo was considering divorce on the grounds of “cruel and unusual camping.”
Highbridge’s diagnosis? “Nothing wrong.” Marvellous.
Act Four: The Redemption Arc (Sort Of)
To be fair, Highbridge did try. Darren Spyres, the operations director, emailed me personally after I’d sent a strongly worded letter. He was sympathetic, efficient, and possibly slightly frightened. He booked Delilah back in, promising answers.
In the meantime, we took her for a local trip – five miles down the road. And what bliss it was! Peace. Tea. Birds chirping. Electricity humming. We began to think it had all been a bad dream. Delilah was redeemed, at least this time.
The following weekend we decided to do the same trip again. All was going well until McDonald’s.
Yes, McDonald’s. I pulled up for a quick burger, turned off the engine (rookie mistake), and… flat battery. Again. Underneath the golden arches, I realised that Delilah’s real slogan was not “Harmony Line” but “I’m Lovin’ It (When You Breakdown).”
Two hours later, a mechanic from the Axa breakdown arrived, jump-started her, scratched his head, and went home. We limped on, quietly humming Tom Jones through gritted teeth “Why, why, why, Delilah?…”.
Act Five: Delilah, Darling, You’re Worth It
Here’s the thing. For all her faults, Delilah is lovely. Spacious, airy, with a lounge that feels like a sitting room and a bed that descends like theatre curtains. She has little flourishes – a pull-out coffee table, a winterised base, a shower you can actually turn around in without elbowing yourself in the ribs. Compared to HLP, where standing up required planning permission, Delilah is practically Buckingham Palace.
Yes, the electrics are dodgy. Yes, the battery voltage drops like my patience after three hours on hold. But when she works, she’s glorious. Comfortable, practical, even indulgent.
Jo and I sit in the lounge at night, mugs of tea in hand, and for a brief moment, it feels like we’ve got it right. Until, of course, the lights flicker.
Act Six: Malvern or Bust
So, what’s next? Delilah is currently back at Highbridge for a full electrical exorcism. With luck, she’ll emerge pure, whole, and capable of driving past a McDonald’s without fainting. And then – the Malvern Show. The big one. Our chance to roll up, pitch up, and show off Delilah without requiring a police escort.
Will it happen? History suggests not. But in motorhoming, as in life, it’s all about the optimism. That, and always carrying a jump starter.
Epilogue: Life Lessons with Delilah
- Stop-start systems are the work of the devil. Switch them off. Always.
- Breakdown cover is like modern art. You pay a fortune and stare at it for hours, wondering what it means.
- Police officers have infinite patience. Especially when trapped with you on the A414.
- Industrial estates are not tourist attractions. Unless you’re into sleepless nights and circling cars.
- Despite everything, we still love Delilah. Because love makes fools of us all.
And so, dear reader, if you see us at Malvern – wave. Or perhaps don’t, in case it distracts Delilah and she decides to die on us again.