You will remember the peaceful sense of accomplishment at the end of the last blog.
This is what happened next.
We hunkered down cosily as the rain spattered musically on the roof. The awning began to flap rhythmically, then more aggressively. I clambered out to hammer in a few more stakes around the edge, recalling my Girl Guide days, and wondering if I should dig a channel for the water to drain away.
Back in bed we could not settle as the caravan rocked and shuddered. Time for the guy ropes. I slid the blind open to judge the level of down pour. At that very moment, the awning simply lifted straight up, the metal poles going past the window like a rocket at lift off. Silence, then a rattle and shuffle, amid the pelting rain and triumphant wind.
Someone had to do something, and it was me. No point in wearing clothes in that sort of rain, so I pulled my pathetic short city rain jacket over my bare skin. By the light of our personal power pole, I could see the awning was still attached to the caravan, but it had flipped inside out, very neatly sitting over the roof and down the sides. The erstwhile support poles were now antennae waving in the wind, slightly bent but still intact, a little like a cockroach after you have aimed the death spray.
Sodden, and slightly hysterical, I pulled off a few poles and stashed them under the caravan. Some others I left to provide ballast and weighting. The awning would not be flying anywhere else tonight.
Back into the steamy caravan, for a hero’s welcome. After the shakes, I got the giggles, much to Danielle’s consternation. This is the antithesis of the dream just a few hours old.
But we slept till dawn, when the grey and gusty light let me photograph the undignified morning after the night before.
Thank goodness we had insured the caravan on the day we bought it, and thank you to Covi Insurance who were so pragmatic and kind when I told them my tale of woe to go.