CARAVAN BLISS

 I came across this, this morning on one of the caravan camping facebook pages...

I just love it...   Anyone who has done any caravaning around this amazing country of ours would identify with this poem.  It is so good that I wanted to make sure that I always retained a copy of it hence why I am sharing it here...

CARAVAN BLISS

"There was movement at the station" wrote a down a famous man.

But how did Banjo know this? P'haps he towed a caravan.

 

Perhaps Banjo had been woken in a van park from his sleep,

Some two hours before the sunrise by strange noises from the deep..

 

All the Ërk, Erk, Erk"of van legs being screwed up in the dark,

As the first nocturnal travelers starts to wake the sleeping park.

Then just like a feral mating call some others answer back,

With their Ërk, Erk" flaming chorus as the first start down the track.

Everything they pack is metallic and it clatters, bangs and dongs,

As they bark out loud instructions amid hollow clacks of thongs.

 

Now it's time to warm your motor if leaving in the dark,

Especially if it's diesel and jackhammers the entire park.

 

Because now it's time to hook on and you hear the circus start,

More left-not-right:  I said this way you pigheaded deaf old fart.

 

And how dare you call me brainless you ungrateful senile drone,

If you don't want my directions do it on your bloody own.

 

By now the doors are slamming just to finish off the show,

Are you sure you turned off the gas?  You yell out "just bloody go"!

 

Because now it's almost daylight and the camp picks up the pace,

As these geriatric gypsies all begin their morning race.

For the next park is their target where like metal ants they flock,

For the first in gets the best shade and a close ablution block.

But for us still vainly sleeping we just toss and kick and turn,

Who said holidays were restful?  Beauty sleep is what we yearn.

But there''s miles of zippers zinging as the tents all fold to go,

And there's campervan doors grinding as they whizz bang to and fro.

There's neighbours out there yelling "Looks another nice day Fred",

And you think, it would be better if you mob were still in bed. 

You can't beat ém so you join ém in this hyperactive spree,

For the laundry's now in full swing throbbing like a DC3.

To the bathroom men are walking holding buckets with a lid,

While discussing ageing prostates ad comparing what each did.

Then a rotten kid starts whinging and will not do what he's told,

Bring back the lash, you yell out, it worked fine in days of old.

All this action makes you thirsty, so you start to lift a lid,

Then he comes from out of nowhere - the eternal Outback Kid.

He's a clone of Harry Butler, Malcolm Douglas rolled into one,

He has finished and climbed and driven ev'ry track under the sun.

And he brags about his conquests twice around the bush and back,

Though you half suspect his tinnie has been welded to his rack.

For this man is a fanatic, he has traveled ev'rywhere,

After half an hour's earbashing you sure wish he wasn't there.

Cause now in the park it's showtime magic moments all can share,

You prepare for entertainment as you grab your beer and chair.

For here come the new arrivals with their wives all looking terse,

You thought leaving was a hassle, well arriving's ten times worse.

Cause hand-waing female logic with male thinking won't compute,

So a jack-knife on the an site soon erupts in hot dispute.

It's as good as any circus wife and husband on attack,

As spectators in their deckchairs watch the rig shunt up and back.

For there's trees and shrubs to back through and a water tap of course,

Then the happy couple unhook mostly ending in divorce.

Then in come the tourist buses with their worn out frazzled crew,

As they bail out almost running for they all have jobs to do.

Then a canvas city rises built with hammer's echoed clacks,

From the old girls driving tent pegs like they're laying railway tracks.

Then it's 8pm, cheap phone calls, there's a rush to all get through,

Three phones for ninety people and your the last one in the queue.

With the callers always yelling cause their homes are far away,

Forcing half the park to eavesdrop on each work they have to say.

Telling all about the weather and adventures they've been through,

Then they stop and start repeating from the other's point of view.

Then the lights dim on the campground and a gentle hush then falls,

Except the drone of rasping snoring through each caravan's thin walls.

And you drift in gentle slumber as sweet dreams flit through your brain,

Till at 5am there''s Ërk, Erk, Erk"  hell here we go again.

Bob Magor as the Author.