Andrew English's column

	An endless source of cheap gags, the experienced caravanner tends to be one of the more competent towing drivers on the roads

Blame La Nina, carbon dioxide or a good old British summer, but it won’t have escaped your notice that we haven’t seen much of Mr Sun so far this year. Yet biblical floods, rain, even hailing frogs don’t seem to have put off that stalwart of British bank holiday roads, the caravanner. This hardy breed, with their winceyette curtains, chemical loos, pull-out divans and Spam sautéed on Calor gas stoves, once counted such luminaries as Jeremy Clarkson, Jay Kay, Kylie Minogue and former Foreign Secretary Margaret Beckett among their number.

In fact, the redoubtable Caravan Club is celebrating its centenary this year. Started on 14 June 1907, today it represents 900,000 caravanners, motor caravanners and trailer tent owners. An endless source of cheap gags, the experienced caravanner tends to be one of the more competent towing drivers on the roads. Most maintain a good pace, have extended mirrors, load up their Spam correctly and (occasionally) pull over to let faster traffic past. To that rare tally of good trailer pilots add drawbar lorry, semi-artic and (most) horsebox drivers, plus the occasional breakdown mechanic.

But let’s finger the bad guys here. You know who they are. The nincompoop council road repair truck with an industrial compressor bouncing behind it like a five-year-old’s balloon on a string. The hired trailer carrying some rusty old Jag that weighs more than Portsmouth and weaves from side to side like a clock pendulum. The scaffolder’s seven-and-a-half-tonne lorry, with a trailer on the back to hold his extra steel poles, spare brains and copies of The Sun. Then there’s the worst of the lot: the jet ski trailer tower, otherwise known as the Romford Navy. Five gadzillion horsepower on the back and a brain so addled with Ambre Solaire, chips and Mr Whippy that they can’t keep the car under 90mph. You can see them hanging upside down from trees along the A12 every day of the summer.

Few, if any, of these drivers will have had any towing training, as anyone who passed their test before 1 January 1997 is entitled to pull vehicle and trailer combinations up to 8.25 tonnes gross combination weight, and minibus and trailer combinations over 750kg gross. If you’ve passed your test in the life of this Labour Government, you can tow a trailer weighing up to 750kg and also a combination up to 3.5 tonnes, provided the gross weight of the trailer is not greater than the kerbweight of the pulling vehicle.

Anything else and you need to get a B+E car and trailer qualification. It’s complicated and you’ll need tuition. Try the following for more advice: the Camping and Caravanning Club (www.campingandcaravanningclub.co.uk), Caravan Club (www.caravanclub.co.uk ), Institute of Advanced Motorists (www.iam.org.uk ) and Drivecraft (www.drivecraft.co.uk).

Actually, I hate caravans. It’s something to do with spending vast amounts of my childhood in the rear-facing seats of a Volvo estate watching a Sprite Major weaving behind us along evilly surfaced French and Spanish roads. Boring doesn’t begin to describe the experience. Once, to relieve the dullness, my brother and I made up a story about a Renault that had just overtaken us with a set of pram wheels on its roof. We told Dad that the carrycot part of the pram had fallen off in a ditch.

We gave chase, and the sight of the caravan skidding round behind us was epic. Some hours later, dad caught the Frenchman and attempted to explain how he’d lost the rest of his pram. While dad was out of the car we owned up to mum, and the sight of this chap’s bemused face had us in stitches. Funny how dad didn’t see it the same way. Anyway, we salute you birthday caravanners. May the Spam be with you – and remember, you will always be one up from the Romford Navy.