U on Sunday: Fran Whiting’s caravan holiday in Queensland

Married for 20 years and with two children, Fran Whiting thought she had moved beyond the whole bed hopping business. But no, she recently found herself at it again. Every night.

U on Sunday columnist Fran Whiting had a family holiday she’ll never forget.

You know, married for 20 years and two children later, I really thought my husband and I were beyond the whole bed hopping/swapping business but no, we recently we found ourselves at it again. Every night.

Oh my goodness, what are you thinking? Honestly some of you really need to elevate your thoughts a little higher, need I remind you this is a family column in a family newspaper?

No, the reason my husband and I were bed hopping is not because we have become swingers and now spend our evenings throwing our keys into a bowl and hoping for the best with Pam and Richard next door, but because we recently went on our first motorhome holiday where there were three double beds up for grabs.

And our daughter, being 11 years old and still agog at such wonders wanted to try them all, bedding down like Goldilocks and testing out a different bed every night.

This meant the rest of us would have to vacate ours from the night before, which nobody grumbled about except my son who is 16 years old and that is what 16 year old boys do. Grumble. And eat. And ask where their belongings are a lot, in between muttering “OK boomer” under their breath.

We’ve recently returned for our motorhome trip, and regular readers may remember I went with high hopes for a rollicking adventure wherein we would run into some sort of pirate trouble, or diamond smuggling racket, or a band of gypsies who would steal George’s dog Timmie.

Wait, that’s Enid Blyton’s “Five Go Off in a Caravan”, not “Four Go Off in a Motorhome” and although we didn’t run into any international fugitives on the run from the law, we did have a really good time. A really, really good time. And I had a particularly wonderful time once I realised we had our own shower.

But even if we didn’t, I discovered that these days caravan park amenities blocks are really quite stylish, and not at all like the horror show I remember from a camping trip in the eighties.

I am still scarred from the memory of frantically trying to wash my hair with Flex shampoo before the hot water ran out, while my friend Ruthie stood outside feeding 20 cent coins into the hot water timer box like she was at the pokies.

The other thing I discovered during that holiday is that, once we were confined to close quarters, our little family still gets along pretty well. I’d forgotten, to tell the truth, because we usually disperse straight after dinner to our separate rooms and lives.

I go upstairs to read, John watches television downstairs, my daughter usually draws at the dining room table, and I have no idea what my teenage son does because I’m not allowed in his room anymore.

But in the motorhome, we found ourselves in conversation or playing board games. With each other. All of us. And it was lovely. And illuminating. And fun.

There’s nothing like living in close quarters to bring you closer. I learnt a lot about my family on that trip, including what my son thinks of Trump (not much), my daughter thinks of unicorns (she’s for them) and my husband thinks of all of us (loves us to bits, as it turns out).

If you’re looking to reconnect with your own family, I’d give this sort of travel experience a whirl - I’m not saying we are ready to join the grey nomads yet but I am thinking of ordering a sticker for our car that says “John and Fran, just cruisin”.