Happy Camper
- Richard Mark Dobson
- Mar 25
- 6 min read
Updated: Apr 4
My earliest memories of caravan life take me back a long way—to the late ’60s, when our annual family holidays took us from the north of England to sunny South of France. My grandfather, the late great W.F. Dobson, was a true itinerant, having lived in over 30 homes in his lifetime. He always kept a large parked caravan somewhere along the Riviera. So from 1969, when I was just six, until 1974, Dad would drive us across France—destination: Nice, Cannes, or wherever Grandad had decided to settle that summer.
For my brother and me, these journeys were pure adventure. Long hours on the road flew by as we played games—“Spot a car beginning with the letter V” was a favorite—while Dad navigated the roads replete with cool French cars (seeing a Citroen SM was always a thrill), Mum prepared snacks from a wicker picnic basket. The caravan swayed behind us, a little rolling home trailing our excitement.
But what I remember most vividly are the smells—how they changed as we crossed the Channel. England had its damp, fusty scent, but France? France smelled alive. Street markets spilled their abundance onto cobbled roads, the air rich with fresh fruit, cheese, and coffee. The caravan had its own distinct aroma, too—wood, Formica, and then there was the salt air that clung to everything once we reached the coast.
And then, of course, there were the tanned French girls—beautiful, effortlessly lovely. The old men in berets played pétanque and smoked Gauloises, their laughter wafting across the warm evening air.
Nights were their own kind of magic. The flickering glow of gas lamps, the soft pop and fizzle of moths drawn to their light and flame, the rhythmic hum of crickets. We’d fall into our bunks, happy and exhausted from hours on the beach, lulled to sleep by the scent of the sea. Life was simple. Beautifully so.
The late and great WF. Dobson and Gladys Dobson outside their caravan home, Nice. French Riveira circa 1969.
Pete and I with our favourite Teddy's. Campsite. Cannes, French Riviera. 1971.
Now, not in the 1960s, but in my own 60s—I’m 62—camper life is calling me back.
Reunited with my Teddy. Johannesburg. 2015.
The closest I’ve come to living in a motorhome was during my heady South African days. In 1996, I bought a 1985, 4.2L, six-cylinder FJ60 Land Cruiser—a rugged beauty that a good friend fondly nicknamed The Beast.
For over a decade, I roamed the length and breadth of Southern Africa in The Beast. She never let me down. There was a true kinship between man and machine—a silent understanding. She was my tank, my cargo van, my roadside hotel. More than that, she was a steadfast companion, a fortress on wheels that made me feel safe no matter how remote the wilderness.
Out in the depths of the Kalahari, I’d often stretch across her broad bonnet, my back against the front window, roll a cigarette, and lose myself in the vast, infinite night sky.
I miss The Beast.
Lately, I’ve been pitching my tent in the Karoo, South Africa, living under nothing but a thin veil of fabric, surrounded by endless wilderness. Stripping life down to the essentials. And I’ve come to love it—the simplicity, the rawness, the connection to something deeper.
The Anatomy of a Happy Camper
Envisioning your journey, your camping experience ahead of departure is a good start. Thinking over the where, what, and how sets the stage for the adventure. It's that premeditative troika of clarity, objective, and purpose.
My mind rested on the freedom charter that is the Karoo: remote, rugged, with Outback South African landscapes boasting a timeless primordial appeal. Terrain imbued with bushman lore, stone age art. Dry, hot days and chilly evenings, with low rainfall, though some freak storms tested my tent’s waterproofing. When they cleared off, oh, the night skies. I anticipated retiring early after a simple dinner cooked on a single-ring gas stove, followed by waking with the sun for mugs of coffee.
I planned to relish the company called solitude.
In my imagination, I’d be the lone rider on his silver steed, playing the modern-day cowboy, equipped with new tech like a motorbike and a miniature alloy kettle. While I knew my horse would enforce packing discipline upon me, I intended to prioritize comfort, even if it meant pushing the packing list to the absurd.
Heck, I had filming and photography objectives. So, I meticulously planned out my gear and invested in state-of-the-art paraphernalia. LED lights that burned bright and weighed little, three cameras, two mics—everything miniaturized. Lights, stands, tripods, chairs, tables, plates, stove, cooking pots—miniature versions of everything. That amazing collapsible bucket served as my washing machine, dishwasher, scullery, and sometimes, shower—though seldom a bidet.
Tantamount was a tent I could stand up in, yet be steed-friendly. I searched and settled on the Lone Rider, with its excellent design, easy assembly, durable materials, and well-thought-out ergonomics. Pockets and hooks in all the right places, with just four corner ropes and six ground pegs to keep it grounded even in a howling gale. The sealed sleeping module, suspended on elastic bands, hung away from the outer fly sheet, keeping water out.
I wanted a comfortable, warm bed that shielded me from the cold winter ground. Enter CarmaQuip from Roger in Cape Town, with his custom-designed camo-motif self-inflating ground mattress. It delivered as promised, keeping me warm and dry. Roger, I’m 100% satisfied!
I skimped on a sleeping bag—I wasn’t keen on dropping 3k on down. Instead, I opted for layers: sleep clothes inside the bag, blankets on top when cold. To keep my head warm, I relied on my Norwegian arctic circle wool balaclava and bobble hat—they could conquer the Karoo cold any day or night.
Cooking was simplified to one camp gas ring. Vive La France! The gas ring was my girlfriend, whipping up hot meals and coffee on demand. Stainless steel camping soup pot and frying pan, along with two tin enamel plates, were all I needed to rustle up hearty fare—usually rice with chicken or beef, or chopped up boerwors, with a canned mixed vegetable supplement. Hot, tasty, filling. And in between camp fare, I spoiled myself at Zelig pizzeria in Nieu-Bethesda at least three times a week—the best La Med this side of the Mediterranean. Lashings of mozzarella, olives, capers, anchovies. Yum.
I insisted on a clothes rack. Just as I air my clothes in hotels upon arrival, I applied the same rationale to camping. So, I designed a clothes rail system between two lighting stands and an extendable GoPro selfie stick, all made of carbon fiber—lightweight, foldable, genius! They all fit into a micro-sized 50cm long carry bag. Light stands and tripods multitask for good reason.
My Natural Instincts worked like a charm. Two folding tables and a folding armchair, all motorbike-friendly. The brand delivers amazing camping equipment with brilliant design. Who wants to sit on the grass all the time? The chair became my recliner for cooking, reading, or stargazing. I knew one table wouldn’t suffice—I wanted one for eating and one for keeping my utensils and laptop off the wet grass. I got two tables. I used two tables. I couldn’t have done without either of them.
As a style guru, I packed two comfortable long-sleeve shirts, two t-shirts, a pair of denims, and two pairs of double-stretch, quick-dry long pants. Two pairs of gym longs—one for sleeping in and one as a backup in case of cold. Layers, layers, layers.
Things got cold, things got wet, things got windy. But I loved every minute of it. Life in rhythm with earthly cycles. Basic living led to basic thought processes. The peace and quiet of the location made me feel tranquil. Pretty simple, really.
Looking back on the past 3 weeks, I would say I got it just right. I could not have packed more. I could not have asked for more. I certainly didn’t need anything more.
I could wax lyrical about Nieu-Bethesda for pages galore, but for now, I’m gonna nip this ‘Happy Camper’ meander in the bud.
Best biker buddy by far. A collapsible bucket. It’s my shower if need be. My scullery. Washing machine, dishwasher, wash basin, dish dryer, bidet :-)
So, I see this as my next great chapter, one that brings me full circle—from that young boy, giddy with excitement on the road, to the man I am now, seeking a different kind of adventure. A motorhome. Europe. North or South, it doesn’t matter—so long as I can lose myself in the rhythm of the road, the charm of the Continent and the company of fellow escape artists.
This isn’t just a journey; it’s a mission. A quest for something meaningful. For real connections, for stories worth telling. And, perhaps, for someone to share the road with.
First things first, though—I need the perfect motorhome. The search begins now. Stay tuned.
Comments