Static Caravan Upgrade?

After two years of six of us living in a campervan, we’ve been given the luxury of a static caravan. Hot water, space, an oven, and the holy grail: a flushing loo.

My work has very kindly let us stay in a static caravan with all mod cons. Endless hot running water, proper showers, a toilet that takes care of itself, and a large seating area where everyone can sit without somebody’s elbow in their ear.

After two years in a campervan, this should feel like moving into a palace.

We Already Had Those Things... Sort Of

The camper has heating, but it’s not exactly refined. It has two settings: off, or volcanic crematorium.

Usually I’m asking Alison, who is still sat in a jumper, if I can turn the heating off before I melt into the floor.

We also have water in the van, but only 45 litres. Once you’ve washed up, washed kids, boiled the kettle, and dealt with general family chaos, you’re hunting for more water pretty quickly.

Seating? Technically yes. We have six seats. But comfy reclining and stretching out? Not a chance. If all six of us sit down at the same time, it feels less like a campervan and more like a submarine.

Beds are not the problem. We have a fixed bed, a fold-down bed, a pop-top roof bed, and an assemble-the-front-bed situation. Sleeping is fine. Living is the tight bit.

The Flushing Loo Test

I told Alison I’d been offered a static caravan and asked if she wanted to have a look.

Her reply was simple:

“Has it got a flushing loo?”

If it had, she was good with it.

I asked the kids what they thought. They were happy because they’d get a separate bedroom with bunk beds. Kids onboard. Decision made.

The Luxury Fades Quickly

The funny thing is, after a few days, the luxury of flushing the loo and endless hot water starts to feel normal.

Then you notice what you miss.

I miss all of us being together in the van. I miss being parked somewhere remote with the door open and the kids coming and going freely — at least until about 5pm, when the midges arrive like an organised military force.

The static has space, but space creates its own problems.

The kids now have a 20-foot run-up to the sofa. That doesn’t sound much until you hear them charging across the hard floor like elephants wearing clogs.

There are also cupboards everywhere. So many cupboards. Every one of them apparently needs to be opened, slammed, drummed on, climbed into, or used as a trap for tiny fingers.

The one-year-old has shut her fingers in the doors three times already. Nothing serious, thankfully, but enough noise to burst both eardrums.

What We Miss From The Van

The campervan is small, awkward, and constantly needs rearranging. But it also keeps us together.

In the van, everything is close. Sometimes too close. But there’s something about that tiny space that works for us.

The static is easier. The van is more us.

The Bit I Had Forgotten

Then I remembered the other side of van life.

If we want to drive anywhere, I have to refasten all the kids’ seats, swing the front seats round, fasten everything down, pull the pop-top roof down, remove the levelling ramp, and make sure the van doesn’t look like a small bomb has gone off inside it.

So after all that emotional nonsense about missing the camper, I’ve slightly changed my mind.

Final Verdict

For now, I’m marginally in favour of the static.

Alison likes the space and the oven. The kids like having their own room. I like not rebuilding the van every time we move.

But the camper is still parked just outside.

And I already know we’ll miss it properly.