Title Credit: Denise Jacques

If you happened upon this page and thought ‘oooh tits’… move along, it’s not what you think… although with a shot of tequila it could have been quite different

The title isn’t a metaphor however, it’s painfully true.

To give some context, I wrote a blog four months ago when I decided it was time to start living my life fully after separating from my husband of twenty years.  The blog was supposed to be about how I wanted to go to a red-carpet event, something in 38 (okay 53) years that I’d never experienced, and the planning that went into it.  However, that never happened – ADHD much?  Instead I wrote about peeing all over shapewear and having to find an alternative way of having a pee when wearing a dress other than sewing myself up.

So, this blog is about attending a red-carpet event – yes? …Erm…

Campervan Retreats for Women to Unwind in Nature was the title of the Facebook group I found myself stalking.  Having given up alcohol well over a year ago, I can only blame this on perhaps too much caffeine, or maybe it was not enough, but after a few minutes of looking at the promoted events I had found a gap in my diary and booked a long weekend in Pembrokeshire. 

Ahh, lovely.  But wait… the title of the group should have given me pause, there were a few words there that didn’t fit with my personality – at all. 

• Campervan – I don’t have one. 
• Retreat – other than from enemy lines (two divorces) I had zero idea.
• Women – I’m an introvert. 
• Unwind – I have ADHD, there is no unwinding. 
• Nature – what’s that? 

I booked early June and then forgot about it, in its entirety, until an alarm rang on my phone and reminded me I had no campervan and a week to go.  Hiring one wasn’t as easy as you’d think as the weekend fell on the same weekend as Glastonbury, but I did find one, although I struggled to manage my face when I arrived to pick up the van… it was basically a bed on four wheels, not the 5-star spa on wheels I’d envisaged.

My bestie, who kept calling me a legend whenever we spoke about the upcoming retreat (there should have been a tinge of fear at this but it missed me) was supportive and optimistic about my managing to arrive at the retreat… not necessarily stay, but get there. 

The getting there was the bit I was most concerned about.  When I was 18 a friend drove us across the Severn Bridge, in a VW campervan, and we broke down… unfortunately there was only one lane operating that day and we were on it… the abuse we suffered from motorists as two young women was awful, and that experience was entirely responsible for my having vertigo over every single bridge, and flyover, I’ve crossed since, to say nothing of the panic that I go through.  So, yup, here I am, 35 years later, due to go across the same bridge, in the same type of campervan, but this time entirely alone – unless my labrador, Samson, can be classed as a passenger.

I had decided once I got into the van, and oh my goodness I did crunch those gears for the first few minutes, that I would not stop until over the bridge as I had a feeling (knew damn well) if I stopped I’d simply go home.  It took me well over an hour to get to the bridge, which I could see looming for a good ten minutes until I reached it, but the great thing with living in Delulu Land is that I can persuade the teenagers in my brain a whole manner of things if there is even the tiniest bit of evidence… such as the bridge sign didn’t say The Severn Bridge… it said The Prince of Wales Bridge… woo hoo… not The Severn at all, nothing to worry about, piece of piss, this will be a good boost to my confidence before we have to face The Severn… and then, within but a few minutes, the sign declaring I’d entered Wales appeared. Done.

There is no need to go over the 5 hours it took to get to my destination, pretending that Samson was a service dog when I went for a pee and a drink at a service station or going around the same roundabout three times as I kept missing the signage as I was too busy reading the Welsh words rather than the English!

The retreat was not a retreat – it was an embrace. 

The women who accepted me and my potty-sailor-mouth with no judgement (at least to my face) were amazing.  I appear awkward as I no longer mask my ADHD so I can talk for hours or I can clam up, or I can pretty much just drift along in my own weird world, but this didn’t faze anyone and every single person had a story that I only wish I’d had more time to explore.

Did I unwind? Probably, but with ADHD that’s a hard one to call as 3 of the teenagers might be chilling whilst the other 12 are attending a rave, but I was definitely in a different environment that I thoroughly enjoyed… even though I didn’t sleep for three nights due to my dog thinking he was still in our king-size bed.

I didn’t spend much time in nature truth be told, but that was my decision as I could have, but I was too damn tired and can’t function until at least two cafetières of coffee are inside, which was when most of the nature activities were happening. 

But I did some guided meditation outside, until Samson started barking at someone nearby, so that was about 5 minutes worth. 

I also attended yoga on a SUP, a new experience which was brilliant fun, although that was cut short because of – well – Samson again. 

After sharing with the group how tired I was – I didn’t really need to share as you could see from my face, which had pretty much stopped functioning, that I was looking a tad on the ruined side –  I was encouraged to pee outside the van in the middle of the night to help me stay in a sleepy state.  I couldn’t bring myself to do that. 

Surely everyone knows that’s where the bogeyman hangs out?  So I was uber thankful for the She Wee that I’d practiced using for my red-carpet moment that never happened (yet) … oh my goodness did that come in handy at 3 and 6am!  Which brings me to the toilet and tit scenario.

All of the women (and one fabulous male who was part of the team, introducing himself as hoping to be of use – he was far more than that, he was spectacular in his helpfulness to me for sure), had fabulously equipped campervans, apart from me and one other. 

When I said all the women were legends, I meant it, and the only thing I want to share about this particular ledge was not only did she have the most perfect trained dog with her, she also had a cat, in a bag, and she took it for a walk, on a lead – I shit you not.  Rather than use a She Wee, she evidently had no fear of the bogeyman taking her out in the night, she had a toilet tent… I did not make that up. 

On the final morning, we took it in turns trying to wrestle this toilet tent into its tiny bag, whilst the ledge stood by in her jungle-theme PJ’s, with the cat in her shoulder bag, looking nonchalantly on whilst eating cake for breakfast… L.E.G.E.N.D.

This is my recommendation, should you care for it…

Rather than get your tit stuck in a toilet tent, in the arse-end of nowhere, trying to fold a 6ft monster into a 2ft bag by twisting, sucking, squishing and basically pushing in such a way that no woman should have to, hence leaving my tit behind in it when I finally thought I’d figured it out, do yourself a favour and buy a bloody She Wee – or risk the bogeyman getting you – either is better than the pain of losing your tit in a toilet tent.