As I write this, I am sitting on a damp picnic bench on a steep incline of grass outside a caravan in a park in Perranporth.

Today is our last day after a Cornish school holiday vacation that has failed to live up to the expectations, whatever those expectations were, due to weather that has been as predictable as living up the side of a volcano or on a flood plain.

Only last night we ‘suffered’ storm Kathleen (who comes up with these names?). 

She was fearsome and ferocious as we hunkered down in our Atlas Eden caravan and thanked the Lord that we were not, like those poor sods at the bottom of the field, protected from the elements by a thin strip of nylon that is as hardy as a banana in a Nutri bullet blender.

We gave up on camping many years ago because it is expensive, arduous work and ultimately crap.

Not for us is the lugging 10 tons of equipment to a sodden field to wake up sweaty with a Friesian cow attempting to eat the awning before noticing the local fox has made away with our Berghaus hiking left boot as we arrive back home the opposite of refreshed and vowing never to undertake that folly again.

But caravans? Oh, caravans, what a different kettle of fish! Now I’m not talking about the touring caravans that we used to drag along behind a Mark 1 Cortina as it strained every sinew to get up the hill before four of us tried and failed to squeeze into a two-berth, no, I’m talking the landed types: static caravans.

East London and West Essex Guardian Series: Brett Ellis does not like campingBrett Ellis does not like camping

Within an hour of arriving both adults say something along the lines of, "If I were single, I could happily live in one of these" as daydreams of divorce and a life stretched out on the living area sofa seem strangely within reach.

Now as comfortable as our homes, they are but boxes on stilts, but with electric hooked up and all the mod cons, bar a washing machine. 

The corridors between the rooms are peculiar as if they are expecting an anorexic group booking in due course, as you slide sideways towards your sleeping area and then get a sudden rush of excitement when you realise, they have squeezed in what can loosely be described as an ensuite. 

But then, after a few days, packed up, you arrive home and realise that you really do value those creature comforts, such as a shed and a dishwasher, before the after-sales texts and emails come through offering you ownership of an Eddis 500 for the knockdown price of £50,000 and £800 a month until your dying day.

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher.