Camper Van Tales...... Part 1

The camper van man

Over a few pints in the Corner House the other afternoon the conversation unlikely as it may sound for that time of day took an interesting turn as  someone, I think it was Stokey, happened to mention this chap and his camper van who has been on BBC2 of an evening. I have to say that the assembled company had very little positive to say about the bloke. Lots of guarded mutterings and mumblings. I was very interested as I have a Toyota Hiace van which although it needs a bit of work done on it I hope to get back on the road this summer. Apparently he has written a book about camper van cooking, thinking about it now I do recall reading something similar like in the Journal a while back,  and on the back of that someone decided to give him his very own TV programme. From what I could gather he lives out Hartland way down towards Cornwall somewhere and he claims to devote his life to surfing,  tinkering with a fleet of VW vans and  dreaming up recipes to enjoy if you're out and about in a camper van. I hadn't managed to catch the programme but my interest was certainly pricked by Annie Cawoods slurred interjection during the discussion that it was just another example what she called lifestyle porn. Lifestyle porn?  Until then I'd never heard of such a thing and old Annie herself  didn't seem to know where such a notion had come from and she seemed genuinely stunned by her own ready analysis.One things for certain  I don't reckon she came across such a high blown concept in the Western Morning News or those back copies of the Exmoor Magazine and Devon Life that she carries about in one of her bleddy laundry bags

My Hiace. Back on the road in no time.

Anyway after the tone of the conversation descended to a rather base level "lifestyle f*******r" is what old Stokey decided to term him and his ilk and he seemed very pleased with this piece of razor sharp wit that by the time I left he was just slumped in the corner contenting himself  by burbling it over and over again and cackling.
When I got back down here to Ashford Strand I stuck in the dongle to take a look for myself on Iplayer. Turns out that the fella is called Martin Dorey and from the episode that I saw, where he went off with his mates down to Bucks Mills or thereabouts, he seems like a jolly sort of chap. I fast came to the conclusion that he was an amiable prat. Although I don't reckon he is the most charismatic of TV presenters, Matt Baker he ain't! He made a fair fist of it. All I can say that it was a bloody good job that he had a film crew with him to fetch and carry as if his attempts to catch and cook a fish supper were anything to go by he would have starved if such a pattern of general ineptness had continued throughout his jaunt around the UK. He caught bugger all, Dan the fisherman, another media friendly figure, down at Clovelly caught him an inedible fish and then to cap it all his stove was washed away by the tide. Still it was beautiful scenery. The star of the show was without a doubt the North Devonian / Cornish coastline. I must say it really is a beautiful part of the world down that way, specially on a summers evening with the sun setting over the ocean in a gigantic western sky. The light and evening shades must surely  give the Northern Lights a run for their money any day of the week. It got me longing to get down to Welcombe meself and hole up in the old caravan for a few days. Ah won't be long now as the evenings are drawing out and the daffs are coming into bloom. It was at this point that I began to understand what Annie was going on about. I guess there are thousands and thousands of people out there who aspire to live this kind of live but lack the means to be able to do it, apart from a couple of times a year. So in order to satisfy their yearning  they seek gratification in purchasing outdoor equipment and devouring these kind of telly programmes,  longing for the day when they too can live the dream. Of course that's all it is a dream mark my words it won't seem so bloody lovely when you're stuck out isolated out at Hartland, on a wet and windy Wednesday in November. It's Straw Dogs territory out there and all. Lifestyle porn, the penny dropped. Still he seems like a nice enough bloke turns out one of me brother in law's boys knows him and has nothing but praise for his surfing skills
After I skipped through a few more episodes I can confirm that Mr Dorey maintained his enthusiasm throughout but did little to improve his hunting and gathering skills and in the end to cap it all the bleddy van broke down, so it had to be driven back down here on the back of a truck. This left me scratching my head. How does a bloke who professes to live a life devoted to surfing and vanning off the A39 somewhere manage to get himself a TV programme. I had my suspicions and all I can say is they were, after a little light googling, soon confirmed. Turns out  a few years back in London he was a big noise in the advertising industry. Apparently he created the Wrigley's adverts at the start of a soap opera called Hollyoaks, what ever that is. The bugger is a fully paid up member of the mediaocracy.
            All this put my mind to wondering how far I would get in the world of the media with my own camper van tales?

Glastonbury 1976

Back in the seventies I spent quite a bit of time in and out of VW vans. Loads of people in the area had them as they were very practical. In a VW van, not necessarily, a camper, you could fit a few bales in it, bags of feed and even from time to time a couple of sheep. For that very reason shepherds tended to use them. They were also good runners and once you managed to get at the engine quite easy to maintain. Mind you the bodywork would crumble away after a while as, rather ironically, they hate salt air. Wes Twardo ran a succession of them for years and I remember fondly one evening going out to a dance at Alverdiscott where we ended up pushing one of the buggers most of the way out there and back again. On the smaller hills we had to climb out walk up to the top behind it,  push it over the brow and then jump back in again before freewheeling down the other side juddering as Wes tried to get the motor running all the while belching out sooty little clouds of exhaust. It wasn't too long before he went down to Croyde Motors and traded it in for a more reliable model. This was the time when I'd just come out of the merchant marine, the glorious summer of 76,  so I was looking at ways to supplement savings. Someone, I think it was Stokey, who has always had a keen eye for business suggested a practical venture whereby we we all piled into the van and headed off to South Molton to Hancocks where with pooled cash from assorted giros and money made from hay baling we bought as many flagons of cider as we could afford. We then hit the open road, heading off up the A303 to Stonehenge, where after paying off the Hells Angels, Ivor's brother put a word in with 'em, we sold our cargo to the hippies and bikers. Where, after certain 'overheads' were taken into account  we turned a healthy profit. As a bonus we  had a rare old time up there on Salisbury Plain I spent most of the days ogling the dancer from Hawkwind. I haven't seen anything quite the like before or since and I was a man of the world! Besotted I was, still am. We then headed to Thatchers at Sanford to pick up some more juice and then stopped in at Pilton, Worthy Farm or Glastonbury as they call it now of course back then it was just a few marquees in a muddy field full of cows and a stage set up on a flatbed tractor trailer and some beer crates. Here we managed to offload a few more gallons and then back home via Sammy Inch's where we invested in more cider. During the final stages of this particular journey which came to be known as the cider triangle the new van turned out to be as much of a death trap crate as the previous one,  I clearly recall pushing the bugger up through Bampton, then Currry Rivel and as we were coming into South Molton the brakes couldn't take the load and we ended up slightly losing control, careering into the Quinces honey farm sign. We tried to make a quick get away but the van started rolling back down the hill slowly squeaking to a halt in front a rather irate honey farmer. We had to pay him off with some cider and a load of jam jars which we were going to use as glasses.
Back here in North Devon we then spent the best part of that halcyon summer motoring around asssorted campsites and coatstal car parks selling cider to the surfers. Of course back then the surfers were a different breed to Martin Dorye and his mates, mostly they were bleddy mad, wall eyed crazies rather unwholesome types, bikers, nascent punks, post hippy speed freaks, Aussie 'lifeguards' and South African draft dodgers.  Often as not, as they repaired and shaped their own boards, they'd be off there heads on noxious resins. They were a devil may care outlaw community far more righteous than today's surfer types many of whom are more than likely to be middle management sorts from Godalming. I call this latter group floaters as  they just bob up and down all day long and don't catch any sort of wave or are dislodged by the strongest rip. Bloody posers. We spent the summer all squashed in the van sharing a busted up 7 ft bermuda board and a briney damp piss smelling wet suit. Oh happy days.