The history of the Coachman caravan
Let’s be honest for a moment. We’ve all seen the adverts. A gleaming white caravan parked beside a tranquil lake, a happy couple sipping wine as the sun sets, not a care in the world. It’s the dream, isn’t it? The freedom, the adventure, the sheer joy of being the master of your own holiday destiny. But there’s a side to this idyllic lifestyle that the brochures don’t show you. A darker, smellier, and altogether more… splashy side.
I’m talking about the jobs we all secretly hate. The tasks that make you question your life choices, the ones you try to palm off on your other half with a sudden and very urgent need to “just check the tyre pressures”. At the top of that list, the undisputed king of grim chores, is emptying the toilet cassette. It’s a job so universally dreaded that it has its own special ceremony: the Walk of Shame. You know the one. The slow, purposeful march to the chemical disposal point, trying to look casual while trundling a box of human waste behind you, all while avoiding eye contact with the cheerful folk enjoying their barbecues.
The moment of truth
Emptying the cassette is a masterclass in precision engineering and blind faith. You unscrew the cap, you aim the spout, you press that little orange button to release the vacuum, and you pray. You pray you don’t get the dreaded ‘glug’, that volcanic eruption of blue chemical and its accompanying cargo that sends a foul mist into the air. You pray the person before you had the decency to wash the area down. And it’s not just the main event. It’s the whole palaver. The rinsing, the shaking, the nauseating sloshing sound that will haunt your dreams.
The supporting cast of grime
But the toilet is just the headline act in this festival of filth. Let’s not forget its equally unpleasant cousin, the grey water tank. That innocuous looking container that quietly collects all your shower water, washing up remnants, and bits of toothpaste. Leave it for a day too long in warm weather and it develops a smell so unique, so profoundly eggy, that it could probably be weaponised. Wrestling a full Wastemaster across a bumpy field is a workout and a half, and the inevitable splash of greasy, food flecked water on your shoes is enough to put you off your dinner.
And what about the joy of cleaning the caravan after a long trip? Scraping blackened sausage remnants off the barbecue, scrubbing bird poo off the awning that has been baked on by the sun, and discovering a rogue, furry potato you lost under the seats three weeks ago. These are the moments that build character. They are the secret handshake of the caravanning community. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve spent an hour trying to get a dead spider out of the fridge vent with a pair of tweezers.
A badge of honour
So why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through these disgusting, thankless tasks? Because, in a weird way, they’re part of the adventure. They are the price of admission for the freedom of the open road. They are the stories we tell in the pub that have our non caravanning friends looking at us in horror. These jobs are a badge of honour. They prove we’re not just fair weather holidaymakers; we are hardy, resourceful, and not afraid to get our hands dirty (as long as we’re wearing thick rubber gloves).
So next time you see someone doing the Walk of Shame, don’t stare. Give them a nod of silent respect. A quiet acknowledgment that you are both members of the same, slightly smelly club. Because you know that once the dirty work is done, you’ll be back in that chair, sipping that wine, watching that sunset, and it will all have been worth it. Probably.
