clairedavieswriter

Published in MMM magazine 2019

We called her Cecilia, for no better reason than that her number plate began with the letters CEC. She was a supremely graceless white plastic box, perched on top of four preposterously small and narrow wheels, and welded to a van cab.  There was a double bed over the cab and another that had to be made up every night by dismounting the unfeasibly heavy table in the rear lounge area.

Through extensive research, prior to our trip to New Zealand I had identified what I thought to be the two best motorhome hire companies in the country.  Unfortunately, Cecilia did not belong to either of these, because by the time I was ready to book, all their vehicles were taken.  I was pleasantly surprised, if a little sceptical, when I saw the quote from the next company on my list. But I was won over by the nice lady who took my booking. She assured me that her company’s vehicles were all less than two years old, which had me imagining ‘nearly new’.  It was not until we turned on the ignition that we realised just how far a motorhome could travel in New Zealand in two years, with relays of dedicated tourists behind the wheel. 184,326 kms in Cecilia’s case. 

The upholstery was tired; blue goo oozed from the toilet seals and the cupboard doors had a habit of swinging open on corners, spilling their cargo of apples, cans of beans and bottles of wine, which then rolled up and down the aisle until we found a safe place to stop, retrieve them and lash them down again. 

But despite Cecilia’s obvious failings, for us it was love at first sight.  It was our first experience of motorhoming, and for our boys of 6 and 7 it was the best adventure ever. They immediately claimed the huge double bed over the cab and had never been so happy to go to bed. We rarely stayed anywhere longer than one night, but there were no bags to repack. Despite the weighty table, making and unmaking our bed was a trifle compared to the hassle of checking in and out of hotels. Cecilia was easy to drive, except in a side wind, when she betrayed an alarming ambition to turn into a kite. But in normal conditions her stately top speed of 50 mph meant that driver and passengers could relax and enjoy the stunning scenery of the South Island. We could stop whenever we wanted and often felt cheerfully obliged to make the most of our on-board facilities.  So we had fresh coffee and hot bacon butties in some of the most beautiful locations in the world: on the shores of turquoise lakes with a backdrop of snowy mountains; above wild and rugged seal-dotted coasts; or beside grassy meadows where clumps of multi-coloured lupins stretched as far as the eye could see.

On more than one occasion, as we were enjoying our snacks and the view in almost equal measure, we would watch in amazement as a busload of tourists disgorged behind us and took a series of hasty photos, with their cameras and camera phones scarcely leaving their faces, before jumping back on the bus. With a hiss of the door and a crunch of the gravel they were on their way again, presumably to repeat the same manoeuvre at the next ‘sight’ on their itinerary. It all seemed a bit of a shame to us.

In the evenings we would stop at one of New Zealand’s many friendly and well-organised campsites.  Plug in to the mains, turn on the gas, stick a bucket under the sink outlet and we were set: no messing around with flapping nylon, telescopic poles or bendy pegs. At the Fox Glacier it rained all day, but we stayed blissfully dry, playing endless games of Uno and Monopoly, while the poor campers outside bailed out their flooded tents. 

For an old lady, Cecilia knew how to show us a good time. We were very sorry to say goodbye to her after two and a half wonderful weeks on the road but were happy in the knowledge that the next driver to turn the ignition key would find another 2,225 kms on the clock.