A Dorset Caravan

I may have forgotten to go into loads of detail about the place...

The sun gleamed through the parted curtains, warming my peacefully slumbering self. Now, you’re probably thinking, “Gee, this sounds lovely.” And, well, normally you’d be right. But you see, I would much rather it be a deadly storm with bullets of water denting the side of this caravan creating a deafening orchestra of noise and have lightning strike much too close to this tin coffin for comfort. You know why I wish this? Well? Do you?

If not, you don’t own a caravan next to giant hills and have a mother who just adores walking those leg-breaking, back-killing mountains. And that’s not even the worst bit – she likes to walk these monstrous creations before we even have breakfast!

“Come on girls, time to get up! The weather’s lovely so we’re going for a walk.” And my sister, being the little kiss-butt that she is, jumps out of her bed like a gazelle on acid. I can’t wait for her to become a teenager and hate being awake as much as the rest of us.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It is a lovely walk, grass as green as emeralds and the sea as blue as sapphires, and my mum has her heart in the right place when she forces us – or rather, forces me – to go for walks. But exercise on a Sunday morning? No. Name it what you will, but I personally think Sunday’s are reserved for sleeping, reading and just relaxing before the much dreaded Monday appears.

So, after much nagging, I finally got up and dressed. Caravans are cramped, to put it nicely. There are two single beds (At a length where my feet will hang off the end) in the room I share with my sister, and there is barely enough room to shuffle down the middle of them to the miniature bed-side table.  This room is half the size of the master bedroom which is at the back of the caravan, containing a queen-sized bed and en quite as well as a massive built in wardrobe. Then there’s the kitchen/living room, with only the worktop to divide the two.

Anyway, I’m going off on a tangent. Let’s go back to having to go on this trek. Did I mention that the caravan is in Dorset? That means that it’s cows-galore in the morning on the hills. Another reason to avoid walking up there; we’re invading their space! I am of course talking about actual cows and not the people that walk their dogs through the muddiest parts of England and allow them to jump up onto your favourite jeans, getting them all muddy. Yes, the real cows that go “moo!” and tend to help global warming. It’s rather depressing, actually, because whenever we go to the cliffs there’s always a cow stood on the edge as if contemplating the meaning of life and questioning its existence. I feel like every time we see that cow – I’m pretty sure it’s the same one every time – we’ll see it jumping over the edge, shooting the rest of us the bird and mooing, “No more milk for you!” in its cow-lingo.

So, I conclude with this. Do not go on morning walks, particularly in Dorset. You may end up not only needing a therapist but gaining a phobia of milk – and then what will you dunk your cookies in?