When caravanning turns crap, and other torrid tales from around the campfire

It’s often said that a bad day caravanning is better than a good day at work. Which, when you think about it, is a pretty low bar.

After all, how much joy can you squeeze out of a fluorescent-lit cubicle, where the most daring journey you’ll take is to the office fridge to discover if someone’s nicked your yoghurt again!

Yet out here on the road, even when the wheels literally fall off, or nature decides to throw you a left hook, you’ve still got fresh air, a glowing horizon that doesn’t hum under strip lights, and the kind of calamities that at least make for a decent yarn later on...

Take caravanning brochures (or any RV promotional material really - see video above)... it's all turquoise oceans, smiling families, perfectly-cooked steaks and convivial Happy Hours.

However, what they don’t tell you is that real caravanning is often less 'sunset over the beach' and more 'trying to fix a leaking water valve while lying in the dirt under the 'van, fending off a southerly gale, wondering whether the neighbours are laughing at your bum crack'.

Brochure caravanning is sipping wine by the awning in golden light; real caravanning is draining your ute’s battery because you forgot to unplug the fridge lead from the tow vehicle, when rushing to catch that last whale-watching cruise for the afternoon!

Here are some sorry sagas told to us by fellow caravanners around the campfire during our travels throughout the country...

Faye and Tom described how over winter one year, they meticulously planned a spring seaside getaway to Forster on the NSW coast.

Faye said she’d even gone so far as to check the long-range weather forecasts to ensure the timing would coincide with perfect sun-filled days and blue skies. That’s when Tom interjected.

“You know the Scottish comedian, Billy Connolly, once suggested that there’s no such thing as bad weather – only the wrong choice of clothes. He clearly never tried caravanning through a Mid North Coast, torrential downpour that turned our campsite into a mud bath.

“No sooner had we rolled out the awning than the heavens opened up and it stayed that way all weekend,” Faye added. “Sadly, even the most 'appropriate' clothing left us looking like drowned rats with terrible fashion sense.”

Caravanning teaches you many lessons, including patience, resilience, and, most importantly, the art of packing away food like a squirrel before winter.

Steven and Ella had a hybrid 'van with an outside kitchen and told us they were always particularly diligent when it comes to stowing food around their kitchen.

Every crumb cleaned, every latch secured, every biscuit guarded like it was the crown jewels. But, as it turns out, there’s always one furry opportunist lurking with more intelligence than you’d give them credit for.

Their story begins late one night in a bush campsite by the beach; an idyllic and peaceful location only disturbed by the distant crash of waves and rustling of gum leaves.

Wisely retreating inside the caravan to escape a swarming plague of mosquitoes, they settled back to enjoy a game of cards. That's when the outside pantry latch gave a little squeak; a sound they initially assumed was caused by the wind.

But no... It was the subtle click from a marsupial master thief at work. With all the stealth of an SAS commando and the appetite of a teenage boy, a possum had let himself into the awning pantry.

“By the time we discovered him, the little bandit was halfway through our bread loaf and had made a serious dent in the last remaining pack of my Monte Carlo biscuits," Steven explained.

"Crumbs were scattered across the shelf like confetti at a bush wedding. He froze when we opened the door, eyes wide open, cheeks bulging with my favourite bikkie treats like he’d just been caught red-handed at the lolly jar.

“'Oi! Out!' I shouted, flapping my arms like some deranged scarecrow. The possum merely blinked at me, as if to say, 'Mate, you didn’t latch the door properly, fair game.'

"Then, with the grace of a seasoned burglar, he launched off the shelf, ricocheted off the BBQ, and scuttled out through the half-open awning flap, leaving behind a pantry that looked like the aftermath of a bakery explosion.”

Steven spent the next hour cleaning up crumbs, salvaging the solitary biscuit the possum had left, and swearing vengeance.

“Truth be told, I couldn’t help admire his craft,” he confessed. “After all, it takes a special kind of cunning to break into a caravan pantry.

"We learned another truth about caravanning; you can lock the car, chain the bikes, and even stash your wallet, but if you’re up against a marsupial with the munchies, your Monte Carlo’s don’t stand a chance.”

As I've already mentioned, caravanning brochures always paint a dreamy picture: watching the sun go down over glassy bays, fresh fish sizzling on the hotplate, the faint perfume of wildflowers wafting through the air....

What they fail to mention, however, is that sometimes your caravan has other plans. Take, for example, the day Stewie and Anne’s cassette toilet decided to turn rogue.

Usually, the trusty little red light on the toilet cistern lets you know when it's full; a bit like a polite concierge suggesting it's time to slip the toilet cassette out and trek off to the dump point.

But on this fateful day, unbeknown to Stewie and Anne, the float in the cassette had broken, which meant no warning light. Needless to say, they happily carried on, blissfully unaware their humble throne was quietly plotting an overflow of biblical proportions.

The discovery came with all the subtlety of a burst fire hydrant. A suspicious gurgle, a faint whiff, and then, well, let’s just say Noah would’ve had his hands full building the ark.

There are many arduous caravanning jobs, like levelling the 'van on hilly terrain, untangling the hoses and cords on a late-evening set-up, and adjusting awning guy ropes in gale force winds.

Still, nothing quite prepares you for cleaning up the aftermath of a toilet cassette overflow. Stewie reckons it was one of those moments where you stand there, sponge in hand, questioning your life choices...

“Those glossy brochures we looked at before purchasing our caravan promised endless beachside views and barbecues," Stewie recalled.

“But here I was, knee-deep in a ‘situation’ that was less Kakadu river sunrise and more night-shift at the Werribee sewage works! Mopping up was like trying to gift-wrap an echidna – messy, painful, and you know you’re going to suffer in the end.

"Eventually, I sorted it out, though not without some gag-inducing heroics and a generous supply of disinfectant. As I hosed out the cassette, muttering words unfit for church, I realised caravanning teaches you humility above all else.

"Some days you’re sipping wine by the campfire under the stars, and other days, you’re the janitor of your own outhouse on wheels.”

Helen and Mike’s flat-tyre saga could’ve been a scene straight out of a sitcom.

Their approach to packing is less 'systematic organisation' and more 'biblical scavenger hunt' – seek and ye shall find.

First, Mike had to locate the wheel brace, which was buried deeper than a politician’s conscience under the fishing rods, camp chairs, and last year’s Christmas decorations, somewhere in the tunnel boot.

Then the fun part: jacking up two tonnes of fibreglass and steel. Between swatting away flies and muttering 'she’ll be right' through gritted teeth, Mike still managed to flash Helen a smile that said, 'Yes, darling, I totally know what I’m doing'.

Eventually, the spare tyre was wrangled into place with enough sweat, grease, and gravel rash to qualify as a triathlon, albeit with no participation medal or free Gatorade at the end.

By then, caravanning wasn’t a holiday anymore. It was just Mike, a wheel, and the universe sitting back with popcorn, laughing its head off...

If you’ve ever dropped into Tuross Beach on the NSW south-coast, you’d be familiar with the water dragons that adorn the shoreline, lazing on rocks in the afternoon sun.

However, Tommy still chuckles when he tells the story of when his wife, Faye, had a close encounter with a curious water dragon while helping direct Tommy back the 'van onto their site.

Without warning, the big lizard shot out from under the caravan like a greyhound out of the starting box. Faye swears she sprinted a full hundred metres with enough pace to smash the Stawell Gift record, arms hitching up her dress and legs flailing like an Olympic hopeful in thongs.

Tommy, once he’d stopped laughing long enough to breathe, reckoned the creature gave up after 50 metres, leaving Faye halfway down the road. One of the locals told her later they hadn't seen anyone move that fast since half-price drinks at the Tuross bowling club.

The 'conscious uncoupling' of celebrity sweethearts Gywneth Paltrow and Chris Martin, a few years' back set the internet on fire, but it could also be an apt description of every caravanner's constant fear: premature unhitching.

As Chris and Liz discovered, quite by accident, letting some-else hitch up the 'van at the dealer without double-checking was about as smart as allowing a stand-up comedian do brain surgery – funny at first, until it isn’t.

Rolling out with their shiny new 'van, the D-MAX bounced over the first big speed hump, before the 'van promptly let go like it had better week-end plans.

With a metallic screech and a shower of sparks, it slid sideways across the lane, as horns erupted and a bloke riding an electric scooter dove for safety onto the nature strip.

Meanwhile, Chris sat behind the wheel, frozen in disbelief, as if the unhitched caravan had just delivered its own punchline: “I still really like you but we can't be together anymore!”

Despite the toilet cassettes that overflow without warning, the stealth possums that break into the pantry, and the drenching rain that always turns up the minute you roll the awning out, we keep coming back. Why?

Because even in the thick of it – covered in mud, muttering four-letter words at a wheel brace while a thousand flies feast on your sweat – you know deep down that it still beats a day of dreary work meetings, compulsory compliance training and jostling for a train seat on the way home.

That’s the magic of caravanning. The disasters, the detours, the mechanical failures – they’re all part of the journey...

Besides, nobody remembers a holiday where everything goes perfectly to plan. But we all love telling the story of when we tagged our neighbor’s annexe guy ropes and crushed the grandkids' bikes while backing onto a site, or the in-van explosion after we nonchalantly lowered the glass cover on the still red-hot cooktop...