A Night On The Tiles

I used to be a bit of a party animal. I remember when I was about eighteen, nineteen, and into my early twenties, I would go out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. I feel exhausted just thinking about it. I mean, number 1. How did I afford it?, number 2. What did I wear? And number 3. Was it really that good?

It was all about socialising and trying to get a boyfriend (mostly failing in case you’re wondering). We didn’t drink much, and in fact my friend and I took it in turns to drive, so we weren’t exactly wild and out of control, but we stayed out late - never overnight - however my Mum seemed to think I was doing the Devil’s work. God only knows what she would make of the nightlife antics of today. I’ve just been looking at some Facebook pics of one of my ‘friends’ (much younger than me, but a mum) and I have to confess at feeling a little bit uneasy at what is being published for all to see. (in this case suggestive poses with a male stripper - hey ho)


Anyway, age 22, I got a bit fed up of our local town and occasional forays into Manchester, and wanted to spread my wings, so I went off to work in the South of France staying on and off for 7 or 8 years doing seasonal work, going off to a ski resort once, and once getting a permanent job which sadly didn’t last. Partying was a nightly occurrence on the campsite where I lived/worked and the drinking was more profuse than I had previously experienced so I joined in with gusto. Then I came home and went to work for a tour operator in a new town, we never went out my new girl friends and I, as there really was no where to go and one of us had a young child, so we just took it in turns to go to each other’s houses, make spag bol and drink lots of wine. I must confess to feeling very frustrated and boxed in. Then I went back to live in my home town, and started to go out a bit again, and it was quite nice, seeing all my old cronies and catching up. Then I met my husband and shortly after we married my independent going out ground to a halt and I was quite happy about it. The nightlife of my home town held little appeal, I was much happier on a Friday night snuggled on the sofa, watching TV and sharing a bottle of wine with hubby.


So, last night I went out. Into town. The mad nightlife town with a scary reputation. One of the Mums from school is leaving to go and live in Australia - not on her own, obviously, she is taking the family with her, and she had asked a big crowd of Mums from school and some of her work colleagues to go to a local Spanish restaurant for tapas and then for drinks afterwards. Tapas are nice, but they’re not a meal are they? Anyway, buoyed up by wine, we trooped across the road to an almost deserted cavernous bar. The road is barricaded off at each end at weekend making it pedestrianised, and it takes on the look of a street in Magalluf or Ibiza with young extroverts attempting to seduce you into one of the million or so bars lining either side of the street. The bar we chose used to be a cinema and has gone through various incarnations since, always bar related but under several different names, but always spookily similar inside.


One of the Mums has an amazing amount of energy and drive, and started off the dancing. Before long we were all boogying away hoping we didn’t look too off-message. I love a dance and really let myself go, I truly enjoyed myself - for a while . The bar filled up, not manically but we decided to move on to another little bar, made from some tiny house it seemed up a cobbled side street. It could probably have been very nice, but it was packed to the rafters so it was difficult to be sure. The clientele were a bit varied (I’m being kind), it seemed to be the kind of place where old guys (probably even older than me) go in the hope of pulling some much younger, attractive woman; the drunker the women get the more likely the ambition of the older guy seems to be. Everyone seemed borderline paralytic. I couldn’t wait to get home. We Mums all agreed we were very fortunate not to have to endure this week in week out - as if it were torture. Actually it would be torture if indeed you did do this every week. We were similarly universal in our appreciation for our husbands. We got taxis very easily and thankfully set off en route to our sanctuaries and to plead with our other halves never to leave us!!!
I can’t wait to get back to my snuggly sofa, Saturday night TV and a bottle of wine with the man I love.

New Year's Resolution - in October....

It's been ages since I wrote on my blog, and I feel very guilty. I have let myself down - again. I do this sort of thing constantly. I have a massive surge of enthusiasm for something, set myself totally unrealistic goals and then don't keep to them, ending in deflation and self-loathing!

Well, not quite, but I don't feel great about it. So anyway, I'm making a New Year's resolution. I will tame myself, rein myself in and curb the dreamier side of my personality - the side that gets carried away with unrealistic ideas, notions, goals, call them what you will. I will set realistic and achievable goals - little steps and not great big ideas.

I have a very chequered history in this department. I realised very early on that I wasn't quite mainstream. I look fairly mainstream, I suppose I act fairly mainstream, but I don't think mainstream, and this has proved to be a bit of a hindrance.

You see, from an early age, I knew that I didn't want to work in an office, I didn't want to be a nurse, or a teacher, or any of the more solid and sensible jobs that my contemporaries were contemplating. No, I had much bigger ideas. But, and this proved to be my undoing, I wanted to start at the very top in some very glamorous position.

I went through the gamut of dreaming of working in a whole variety of glamorous jobs - top London hotels for instance - I remember once writing to one such establishment and begging, yes, begging them to give me a job. In my naivety, I thought that desperation would inspire pity and therefore they would give me the job. Never mind about my quailification to actually do the work, humph, that would take too long to acquire.

How naive and stupid, but unfortunately this trait has dogged me throughout my life. It has led to a very varied working life and aquisition of skills (never finely honed however), but one that has stayed firmly on the ground floor, ending up with me working in a hateful office (to which I am pathalogically unsuited)and being stuck there on a part-time wage, struggling to make ends meet as always.

The enemy of the dreamer is the inability to accept the mundane and accept that mundane can lead to better things further down the line. I was always unwilling to wait and so moved on to the next thing expecting to find Utopia just around the corner.
So, my list of 'jobs' includes: - Shoe shop assistant(Saturday job)
- Bar maid
- Local Authority Housing office worker
- Cleaner (in S.France)
- Spud Stall assistant (beach bum job in S.France)
- Restaurant commis-waiter (couldn't even get job as actual waitress)(S.France)
- TV extra
- Hotel worker (Italy)
- Holiday Rep (France)
- General factotum for holiday villa company (S.France)
- Offices of large tour operator
- Tour co-ordinator for school travel company
- Interior designer
- Decorative paint effects specialist
- Antique stall holder
- Back to the local authority housing department (desperate measures)
- Market trader
- Photographer
- Credit card company employee

I also trained as a masseuse and aerobics instructor. Phew....there are probably a couple that I've missed...

Why didn't I stick at any of them? Well, a few reasons that I can come up with, although a psychologist might have other ideas.
1. I hated the work (not all cases)
2. The company went out of business
3. I wanted to be self-employed
4. I wasn't making enough money
5. Needed to earn a proper salary

And now, I find myself in the position where my part time salary is insufficient and I need an additional job, either working from home, or something that will fit in with school hours, but I have no skills to offer. At least nothing concrete. My experiences have been invaluable and would, I feel, be an asset to employers but looking at my erratic CV, who on earth would take the punt?!!

Dishwasher gone wrong!!

About 2 years ago we had a new kitchen fitted. I say new kitchen as if it were replacing an existing one, but the truth is we didn't previously have one at all. We had bought a house that hadn't been lived in for at least 11 years that we were sure about, with no nod to modernisation having ever been contemplated prior to that. So we made it liveable; installed a bathroom, put some carpets down applied a lick of paint and moved in. We then set about building a large extension...which is an epic story in itself. It is not something to be recommended if you are living in the property whilst all around you is being knocked out, knocked down, builders everywhere, it never seems to stop raining and mud covers all surfaces. I'll reserve the rest for therapy, or possibly a series of blogs, which pretty much amounts to the same thing! Anyway, we had a make-do kitchen in the rear part of the living room. At first it seemed quite romantic. I used our kitchen table as my work surface, and we bought a two ring hob and oven to cook on. This along with a microwave were put onto the kitchen table, and my utensils in boxes all around. A friend commented it was all rather Jamie Oliver but I think she was humouring me. Our son was then just 20 months old, he is now almost seven, you do the maths....suffice to say the romanticsm had well and truly worn off by the time I got my shiny new kitchen. We opted to have everything built in apart from fridge and freezer as I had had those before and they are far too small, so we went for the big American thing which I love. The ovens (I had to have two for reasons too boring to explain - but having been without anything proper for so long I think I went a bit loop the loop), the microwave, the coffee-machine (told you I'd gone loop the loop - I don't even like coffee), and the dishwasher were built in. Big mistake. HUGE! You don't expect them to go wrong do you? We hadn't had the flooring fitted when the kitchen was put in and this was installed later - wooden flooring, this is an important point (it's actually laminate but it's very convincing). A while ago the dishwasher door became a bit difficult to open and close but we ignored it as I think is traditional. Then last night we could ignore it no longer. Hubby had set himself up as domestic goddess yesterday as I was working all day and hadn't had time (actually couldn't be bothered) to pre-prepare a meal (which, heroically, I usually do - martyrdom awaits). So he had made the meal and was continuing his domestic chores in filling up the dishwasher. But then it all went wrong. 'This is not working AT ALL!' he yelled, which demanded my presence urgently. The door wouldn't close AT ALL. He took off the plinth at the bottom, and got down on his belly with a torch. He was down there for hours, most of the time just staring underneath the huge great thing, where he could see that the rear leg (adjustable to account for uneven floors), had come out too far and slipped off the piece of wood that it was on. Because of our wooden flooring we were unable to pull the machine out to refix it. We scratched out heads, I came up with suggestions which were greeted with derision - they were stupid but I felt obliged to contribute. So, I left him to it as I was a bit bored by now and I honestly couldn't see anything else for it but to take out the entire kitchen which my head couldn't contemplate at 11pm. Just when I was thinking of sneeking off to bed, I heard pots and pans being rattled, then I heard the sound of a dishwasher door being closed, and in came hubby very triumphantly to announce that it was sorted. Somehow he had managed to stablise and level the dishwasher without having to remove it. Dishwasher works fine and the door is no longer difficult to close. What a genius hubby is. Just hoping it won't go wrong again as it really can't be taken out without removing the whole kitchen as far as I can see. Mental note to self - fitted applicances are the devils work....do not go there.

Fish Feeding at Eccy Delph

Eccy Delph is a wonderful name for a wonderful place near to where we live.  It's a disused quarry as far as I know which has been 'developed' (although that may give the wrong impression) into a scuba diving centre.  Now, I have been scuba diving once, about 25 years or so ago in the South of France when I worked there.  It was OK, but I can't say I've ever felt the urge to repeat the experience.  Not in the South of France (dull and boring) and certainly not in the UK (toooo cold), but an awful lot of people seem to get an enormous amount of pleasure from this hobby.  Whenever you go to Eccy Delph there is someone  diving there and the owners have planted interesting objects for the divers to explore - a plane, a car and other such curiosities!  It seems to be quite a sociable sport surprisingly and I must say, I would feel quite tempted to have a go, were it not for my pathological fear of cold water. 

There's a log cabin with a cafe, and a shop selling scuba equipment.  These are both quite rustic and basic affairs. I've never tried the cafe but I've heard that the person who runs it seems to have used Basil Fawlty as his role model. 

You can go into the office and buy a bag of fish food, which is what we do at Eccy Delph given that we are not divers.  The fish are amazing.  I'm not sure what breed (is that right for fish?) of fish they are, they could be trout, I'm not sure, but they are about that size.  They come right to the little concrete slope where the divers can enter the water, eager for food and untroubled by the possibility that they could end up on our plate.  The water is absolutely clear, and watching the fish is hypnotising.  As you throw some feed into the water they scrabble to get some, sometimes jumping out of the water altogether. Kids love it and it is a very pleasant way to spend an hour or two. 

Further development is underway, but being situated where it is in a rural location, and being what it is, I feel it will never become too developed or over commercialised.  I hope not anyway. (apologies for lack of photographs again, took them on my phone and am yet to find the cable so I can download them)

Didn't we have a lovely day....?

Whilst it was the Easter Holidays and hubby and I were both off work we had our usual optimistic plans about how we were going to while away the long sunny days.  The weather, however, predictably, scuppered our plans. It was typically rubbish - pouring rain, gloomy, leaden skies, freezing cold, so all our plans about going away camping in our shiny new tent have had to be put on hold till the day when the sun shines, we are not actually at work/school, and we can hurriedly pile everything into our new trailer (yet to be bought) and do an emegency few days away.  Still, being indoors with children for any length of time, when the PS3 is restricted (I was very tempted to backtrack on this), there's nothing on TV, and anyway that is also restricted (what was I thinking?)is a little frazzling on the nerves; we tried doing indoor kitchen experiements (not altogether successfully), we did papier mache, we read stories, we played games, but my little darling was beginning to act more like a caged tiger.  It's time to release the beast and let him run free, but that flippin weather.... Why don't we live in the South of France, life would be so much simpler. 

In a valiant attempt to ignore the dark omenous skies and predictably gloom filled weather forecast, we decided that come what may, we would have A Day Out.  Where to go?  Now, we are a family that likes a Day Out, so we have visited anywhere within easy driving distance time and again. So we pore over the internet and our Great Britain books to try to find somewhere different not too far away.  We end up plumping for the Lake District as so often we do.  I don't know why we go through the torture of trying to think of somewhere new to be honest.  We love the Lake District, it is not very far from where we live, so we decided that it would be northwards on the M6 that we would go.  Instead of our usual haunts - the South Lakes area around Windermere, Bowness, Ambleside and Hawkshead - we decided to go to Grange over Sands and Cartmel.  We have visited these towns many times before, I had friends who lived in Cartmel and Grange years ago, but we haven't been for a while.  We left the house as the heavens opened, it was pouring, and continued in this vein until we were almost there.  I could have been happier.  When we arrived and parked up in Grange though, a tiny miracle happened. The sun was shining, it wasn't too cold and suddenly my world and my mood seemed a lot brighter.  The weather has a very profound effect on my mood I've noticed, so Husband, if  you read this, you know what to do if you want a constantly happy and less grumpy wife - South of France and emigrate are the words to keep in mind. 

Anyway, I felt a fabulous sense of being away from it all, in beautiful surroundings, and best of all, the caged tiger was in his glory as we released him onto the good people of Grange - running, running, always running, laughing and happy.  He's never this happy on the PS3 I'm pleased to note.

We walked down a very steep hill from the car park to the town, the views from here are fabulous and in the sun, we could well have been in the south of France!  The walk took us through the Community Orchard. What a fabulous idea. A Community Orchard.  Anyone seemingly can come in and pick an apple from several British varieties. More towns and villages should have one of these. Orchards sound so very British don't they? Conjuring up visions of big country houses, countryside, picnics, and lashings of ginger beer, as Enid Blyton would have it, with huge baskets and plaid rugs, wonderful.  An idealised vision of the British countryside and why not?

My son saw an ice-cream shop and pestered and pestered. So, husband and I got ourselves the most emornous vanilla slice from a wonderful bake shop next door - apparantly one of Rick Stein's Food Heroes,  son got his ice-cream and we crossed the road to the small  ornamental park lake where we sat in beautiful sunshine gorging ourselves on our sweet treats. We then walked along the coastal path - son and hubby ran, of course.  The views across Morecambe Bay are quite spectacular and the sun on my face, the away-from-the-rat-race feeling was just so relaxing and energising.  Until we realised our time on the carpark was up and we had to revert to rushing mode for a little while as we climbed back up the hill.

From here we decided to go to Cartmel via a little detour to the village of Flookborough.  Flookborough isn't the picture postcard village you imagine when thinking of the Lake District.  It is just a little village, with pub, square and residents, not tourists.  We went there because a good few years ago we almost bought a little barn on the high street to renovate and we wanted to see what had happened to it.  Having seen 'our barn', we drove to Cartmel. 

Cartmel is a picturesque Lakeland village with a village square surrounded by shops, a couple of pubs and the shop from where the famous Cartmel Sticky Toffee pudding hails.  I think it was this very pudding that really put Cartmel on the map and set it on the road to being what it is today - a bit chi-chi, a village somewhat overtaken by stockbroker-belt types for weekends in the country, with up-market cheese and artisan bread shops.  The pubs are gastro-pubs, there is a Michelin Star restaurant in L'Enclume, and Range Rovers and Audis abound.  Cartmel also has a racecourse on the outskirts of the village which hosts a bi-annual meet - a real country racing affair and well worth a visit - bring a picnic, and have a great day parked on the course, watch a bit of racing, maybe a little flutter in the fresh, invigorating Lakeland air.  Cartmel has a special atmosphere and the magnificent Priory - seemingly way too large for the tiny village - makes it quite magical.  We had a drink sitting outside a pub in the glorious sunshine, we had a wander down the riverbank, we bought cheese and bread from the afore-mentioned shops but were too late for the Sticky Toffee pudding shop more's the pity.  We ate in the pub and felt thoroughly content with our day.  We returned home tired but a great outdoors, fresh air tired, and happy.  A lovely day out. (The reason it has taken me so long to get this post published is because I wanted to include some photographs, but I have been unable to download - took them on my phone as forgot my camera and can't find cable...)

Kidzpod Review

Fed up of the usual lunchboxes I seem to keep buying at enormous expense -(the ones with soft padded sides, meant to insulate the contents, the ones which stink shortly after purchase due to remnants of fromage frais seeping inbetween the stitching and into the padding) - I started to look for an alternative and came upon Kidzpods.

Now I am a bit of a sucker for this type of business - one which seems to have started out of a desire to create something better than what is currently available, starting very often in the kitchen of the inventor/innovator.  The lunchboxes sounded perfect for what I wanted.  They were made from rigid plastic, no padded insulation, therefore were easily cleanable, they had anti-bacterial technology (not sure what that is), they looked great and the pictures on the front could be changed to reflect whatever the child was into at the time. You receive one picture of your choice with the Kidzpod from a range offered.  I chose a bright red pod with a picture of a football for the front.

When it arrived I was delighted, although I didn't feel the picture at the front was very securely held.  The thin piece of clear plastic used to cover the picture and to keep it in place, fitted into a very tiny 'lip' and didn't seem very secure at all.
The first day back at school after the Easter Holidays and I could hardly wait to do the lunches.  The Kidzpod also comes with a waterbottle which fits at the bottom of the Pod.  There isn't room for lots  of things inside the Pod but I managed to fit what I wanted into it.  It has a fold away carrying handle and it is comfortable to carry.  We had to have a few practices at opening and closing it as it is a bit tricky for little hands, but all in all I think we were both quite pleased with it.  Pleased that is, until hometime.  My son informed me that the picture constantly falls out and the Pod leaks if there is anything liquid inside it- for example left over fromage frais.

He has continued to use it but without the picture on the front which is a pity. At £14.99 it was quite pricey and there are other rigid plastic boxes out there that are easier to open, just as easy to clean and have pictures printed onto them for much less. The poor design of one of the Unique Selling Points (ie the interchangeable picture on the front) and the fixing of it renders it pointless, and that's a real pity as I wanted to love Kidzpod, but I don't.

Camping - You Don't Have to be Bonkers to do this, but it helps...

I'm not a natural camper.   The lack of running water, electricity, comfy seating and indoor toilets, cooking on a wobbly and frankly unsafe excuse for a cooker, well surely we've evolved haven't we?  Didn't we struggle like this in cavemen times?  So it comes as a little bit of a surprise that I am now staring at the most humungous tent sitting in my house.  How on earth did that happen?

Some friends of ours repeatedly asked us to go camping with them, and it became something of a running joke that I always said I was busy that weekend - even before I knew when they were going.  I could think of nothing worse than sitting in a damp and muddy farmer's field, tramping miles when you wanted the loo, cold and miserable and longing for the comfy sofa, warm living room and TV that you had left behind.  But then one day, my friend said they were going camping, and laughingly asked why didn't we go with them?  But this time, before I could give my stock response, she suggested that we just go over for the day, and not do anything quite so rash as actually camp.  I spoke to hubby about it and we thought that perhaps we should go, I mean we didn't want to appear rude. We liked our friends, it's just that we didn't like their leisure pursuit.

So, off we set for Anglesey, about an hour and a half away from our home. The skies were leaden grey (obviously), but we were relatively smug in the knowledge that we could come home as soon as politely feasible.  We could just show our faces for an hour or two then head off to the warmth of the nearest pub for lunch and come back to our snuggly beds. As we drove over the Menaii Straits via the Britannia Bridge, the clouds drifted away, the leaden skies were replaced with clear blue and the sun actually showed it's face . I started to feel any anxiety and stress ebb away.  I love Anglesey, it is where as a child we spent our family holidays.  There are glorious beaches and the island itself is a very unspoilt, uncommercialised haven. 

When we arrived in the car park of the community centre in the designated resort, we rang our friends and the hubby came to fetch us.  The campsite was a short drive - a few hundred yards really - and was quite literally a farmer's field filled with tents and touring caravans.  Our friends are very sociable people and other of their friends had joined them for the camping weekend, their tents forming a little community in a sheltered part of the site. Our son was immediately taken off by their son to explore and I was transported back to my childhood when we had spent our holidays on a remote caravan site on the island in static caravans, and how much we kids had loved it - the freedom, the adventure. Absolute heaven.  After an hour or so, the cars were loaded up with beach paraphinalea, kayaks, kites and the ubiquitous wind-breaks and we all decamped off to the almost deserted beach. It was incredibly windy and I didn't even unzip my coat never mind take it off, but I felt a deep sense of peace and happiness sitting there surrounded by happy kids doing what kids should do - not a DS or PS3 in sight, just sand, water, dunes and pebbles, making their own entertainment ALL day. We ate our picnic, and the boys were taken off in a massive Canadian canoe brought by one of the gang. There were big kites that could only be controlled if you had muscles like a weightlifter but hubby gamely had a go, and all in all we had a great time.  This was what life should be about.  When we finally decided to head back to the campsite, we were invited to stay for a BBQ. We bought basic stuff from the local mini supermaket and I can honestly say, I have never enjoyed a burger and sausage quite so much.  We headed back home after 9pm - much later than we had intended.  I was really glad though that we weren't camping. The temperature had plummeted and my cosy bed was calling.

We were subsequently persuaded to go and spend a night - our friends kindly said we could use their tent whilst two of them used a little two-man. I realise now they were breaking us in gently. 'Come over for the day'. 'Stay the night if you want'. Next stop - fully blown campers. We'd been converted.  We had 'found' Camping.

I was really keen. Keen that was if I could have a toilet, shower, a separate area for clothes - I couldn't cope with fumbling around in a bag to find a crumpled t-shirt - I wanted comfy seats, an awning to shelter from the wind, lights, heater - the works.  Although I had enjoyed our one night stay (and particularly the day before - dune jumping, kayaks, fun, even though it was cold), there was no room to stand up to get dressed, the toilets were a trek, I didn't fancy the showers - facilities were basic, and I had been cold and uncomfortable in the night, hardly sleeping as our mattress hadn't been inflated sufficiently.  I felt that if we had our own stuff, we would naturally have more room, we now knew to inflate the mattress more, and most of all, I felt our son would truly benefit from this lifestyle - we could pop off easily at weekends if the weather was good and we would all benefit from being outdoors more. I wanted us to get a kayak, to do more outdoorsy stuff. I felt it was important in our sons' development.  I started to look for a tent. Found a 12 man one which seemed to fit the bill - enough room for a separate dressing room, a room for a toilet!  We could take in paying guests!  Great. I discussed it with our friends but was disillusioned when I was told to be careful about getting a very large tent as it would be difficult to erect. I have since found out that large tents can incur a supplement for the pitch, and in some cases are not allowed at all.

Things then went off the boil a bit as winter set in and camping seemed a million miles away. That is until the Spring.  My previously suppressed camping gene started to get restless and I found myself browsing camping supplies sites on the internet once more.  Hubby and I visited a local camping store where they had a large outdoor display and we fell in love.  It was as if we were born to camp!  We eventually bought our tent and it arrived in two MASSIVE boxes. One of which needed a small crane to move it, it was so heavy.  Right, so we've got the tent, lets go!  Oh, hang on though, we still need:

• a cooker
• a stand to put it on
• cooking pots and utensils
• a large coolbox
• sleeping bags
• blow up mattresses
• table
• lighting
• heater
• a tent 'footprint' - necessary to put under the tent apparantly
• a pump
• comfy seats (essential)
• water carrier
• plastic wine glasses (also essential)

Now, how much is all this going to cost?  Another frantic search on the internet for the best prices - this as you may realise takes AGES. Hmm, not the cheap holiday option we had imagined.

It suddenly struck me that all this gear, plus four people and our luggage were not going to fit into our car. Aagghh.  'Husband' I yelled, 'I think we need a trailer, and that means we need a tow bar fitting'.

The cheap holiday option was turning into anything but. The amount of stuff you need, it's unbelievable, and where would we store it all?  I don't know if I can be bothered!  I then did a little search (it was meant to be a little search but as always on the internet two or three hours went by without me even noticing), to try and find a campsite for a couple of nights during the Easter holidays in the Lake District. But instead of the cheap £15 a night we were expecting, there was nothing less than £30 a night. Now I realise this isn't expensive, but you can get a Premier Inn for that price - all comfy beds and warm duvets, lovely (private) showers and toilets.  My husband and I looked at one another - 'have we made a massive mistake - is camping really for us?'.  The Easter holiday expedition was out - weather freezing and we didn't have all the gear, never mind a trailer to transport it all in.  It's the weather - Britain has such a rubbish climate.  We really, really want to do it, but not in freezing conditions and driving rain. We want to enjoy the great outdoors, but in this country, is it going to be viable for us?   The jury's out.  I will report back once we have made our maiden voyage.