The RV. My folks dragged me around scotland, the lakes, wales, the yorkshire dales & moors and the northern pennines when I was a teenager. Obviously I wouldnt have gone if it had been a caravan.
Here's a CD (caravan dweller) story for you. Arriving footsore at the edge of a shropshire town with no trace of campsite on the map. A temporary sign pointed out a site (ad hoc on a defunct race course) I wandered in and paid for my pitch and headed off to put the tent up in the corner of the field where the site manager stated. I was well aware of the dozen or so caravans parked in rough horseshoe around the site, and the number of CD's sitting at their tables staring out of the bay windows of their homes from homes. Having pitched the tent and started cooking the sausages that I'd pick up one of the CD's ventured over and said, "I don't think you should be camping here." To which I replied, "Oh really? Perhaps you should go and ask the site manager who took my money and told me where to pitch..." Without a word the Cd skulked off back to his table and bay window.
