Nothing beats the Great British caravan holiday

Air travel isn’t what it used to be. I think we can all admit that. Those of us who don’t fly British Airways on a regular basis understand the true pandemonium of trying to get to Luton Airport at 3am with an Uber driver half asleep at the wheel. We understand what it means to sit on the tarmac for two hours with the smell of faecal matter and burp being pumped around by a broken air-conditioning unit. We understand what it is to pay £10 for a bath-warm Coke and a pressurised packet of pringles that will inevitably explode into the aisle. 

So, what can we do about it? Well, without the dosh, I’m afraid not very much, Son. Though we can look inwards. 

Enter the caravan holiday. They’ve been around for a while: since before air travel commercialised, before morning pints and Full English Breakfasts on the Costa Del Sol, before Ayia Napa and a clingy case of gonorrhoea, before Brits began swarming the coasts of European countries and filling them with back tattoos and a steely determinism to come home far sicker than they left.