There’s something immediately dodgy about a car park that only takes cash.
No card reader. No app. No “tap to pay.” Just a battered grey box demanding coins like it’s still 1993. It felt less like a coastal amenity and more like a pirate-run side hustle.
Cue the Wilko rummage:
- Under seats
- In cup holders
- Behind emergency biscuits
Eventually, we scraped together enough silver to secure our parking spot. Or most of it. Close enough.
🚐 The Overhang Incident
Now, Wilko isn’t exactly compact. He’s an “extra-long” model—the automotive equivalent of that one bloke who insists XXL shirts are still snug.
So when we parked, Wilko was hanging slightly over the white line. Back end over the kerb, not impeding anyone. No big deal.
Then we noticed the smaller camper beside us doing the same. I turned to the driver and said helpfully:
“You’re overhanging a little.”
He immediately looked down at his trousers.
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that lets both brains process the misunderstanding.
“I meant your van, mate! Your van!”
Paula lost it. Doubled over in hysterics, gasping:
“He thought you meant his appendage!”
We walked out of the car park crying with laughter, trying not to look back in case it set us off again.
Honestly, that alone was worth the price of parking—cash-only inconvenience and all.
🪨 Beach Art & Bacon Dreams
Once recovered, we wandered down to the beach. The tide was out, revealing a rocky wonderland of pools, slick stones, and just enough sand to tempt a sculpture.
So we did what any self-respecting van-dwellers would do: We made art.
Balancing stones like coastal engineers, we stacked them on edge—defying gravity, logic, and common sense. For a glorious moment, we were at one with the sea, the rocks, and the absurdity of it all.
Temporary masterpieces. Just like the best weekends.
🍳 The Holy Yolk
Art done, we followed the unmistakable smell of frying bacon to a nearby café. Sunny spot secured. Orders placed.
I went for the bacon and runny egg bap. The “runny” part is always a gamble. But when it arrived, I lifted the top bun, gave the yolk a prod—and hallelujah, it ran.
Golden perfection. Dripping over the bacon like a slow-motion sunrise.
Paula rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. She’d gone for a sausage bap and an Americano with milk—which, frankly, is just a white coffee wearing a hat. I’ll never understand it.
I stuck with my usual hot chocolate. Because life’s too short not to drink something that makes you feel like a happy eight-year-old.
🕒 The Supermarket Sprint
Fed and sun-warmed, we checked the time. One hour and forty-five minutes to reach a supermarket before 4 p.m.—because coastal supermarkets still live by old-school Sabbath hours.
Paula, calm as ever, said:
“We’ll make it.”
And we did. But even if we hadn’t, we had a backup plan: Chinese takeaway. The perfect finale for two exhausted, slightly sunburned van-dwellers.
🌊 Reflections & Chow Mein
As we sat watching the tide inch back toward our carefully stacked stones, I thought about how perfect the day had been.
- A car park misunderstanding worthy of a sitcom
- Accidental beach art
- The holy grail of runny yolks
- The promise of chow mein later
All stitched together by laughter.
That’s Crackington Haven: a little corner of Cornwall where even a parking mishap turns into comedy gold, and every wobbling rock or egg yolk becomes part of the adventure.