Calzean, caravans and sausages

We were sleeping in the tent again, over the weekend, as we stayed the night at Calzean castle, just outside Maybole on the South coast of Ayrshire. We went along and met up with Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda who were already set up in the Calzean camping and caravan park in their caravan. Sally and Jake, the two collies, were also there of course and were not slow in leading us through the forests to the castle, after we had successfully set up camp. Well, Sally did get a little slow on the way back, but she is approaching seventy.
It had been many years since visiting Calzean and my memories were more than a little hazy. We had a good walk round the grounds up to the magnificent house, turning as we reached the main building's front entrance and descending down in to the walled gardens. From there we headed out to the Swan Pond and then, after a short break on the opposite end, headed back, only making another very brief stop at a small sweet shop in the grounds so that Tom could buy some liquorice. As we approached our camp once more the rain started to drizzle down from the clouded sky above and we took shelter in the caravan where we demolished a bag of Red Sky crisps or posh crisps, as I called them. I then took a slurp of my tea and realised it was Earl Grey. Again, very posh. All this while our little tent sat shivering, patiently outside, waiting on it's occupants.
Caravaning is not proper camping anyway is it? A solid roof above your head, with cushions and sofas to lounge on? Drinking earl grey, dining at a proper dinner table? That ain't proper camping is it? You're supposed to get smelly and grubby camping, drinking cold tea from a flask and sitting precariously on a rubbish foldy stool which either buckles under your weight or sinks into the muddy puddles under your wellies. Why do we put ourselves through the misery of camping then? There must be something primal there. When the rain starts up caravans are a god send. Especially when the rain is no deterrent to a good barbeque.
Tom fired up the German barbeque in the caravan's awning - a large, metal, gas powered cooker that produced a mean steak and sausage. This was the second BBQ of the day as Tom had cooked up some rolls and sausage on our arrival at the campsite earlier. We then talked long into the evening to the sounds of U2's Rattle and Hum and Bowie's Live at the BBC 2003 concert over a good few bottles of Peroni and a few bottles of wine.
The third BBQ of the weekend then came when we arrived at Colin and Heather's place, in the Gorbals, on the Sunday evening after having got home from Ayrshire, showered and refreshed. Colin and Heather now stay in one of these heavily regenerated parts of the Gorbals were the flats look something like the exteriors of major scientific research laboratories with glass panels, large windows and elegant shapes. Upon Ka and myself finally finding the right door, Colin wasted no time in lighting the coals and before we knew it, we were eating more sausages again. I think we ate more sausages that weekend than we have done for the past two months. Afterwards we sat and done some catching up talking weddings, past school fashion statements and Morecambe and Wise. Colin, it turns out, being a bit of a fan and almost giving us a short rendition of their famous dance. Twice that night I mistook the bathroom for the boiler cupboard, the bathroom, which was of pretty good quality, apart from the Van Gogh rip off on the wall, being of excellent quality.