The Motorhomer's guide to pretending you know what you are doing!

Right then, let's be honest. You've bought the motorhome, you've got the fancy folding chairs, and you've even managed to work out how to empty the toilet cassette without redecorating the campsite. You look the part. You feel the part. But deep down, in that quiet place you don't talk about, you know the truth. You're winging it. We all are. Welcome, friend, to the secret society of motorhome owners who are basically just making it up as they go along. The key to survival isn't knowing everything; it's about developing an unshakeable ability to pretend you do.

This guide is your new bible. It's a masterclass in looking like a seasoned pro, even when you've just driven three miles in the wrong direction down a single track lane that's narrower than your hallway. We'll cover the essential skills: winning arguments you are definitely losing, maintaining domestic bliss in a space the size of a garden shed, and mastering the art of blaming someone else for your own catastrophic forgetfulness. Stick with me, and you'll be exuding an aura of calm competence in no time, even if you're screaming on the inside.

The satnav is a lying scoundrel

First, let's tackle the big one: navigation. Every motorhome trip involves at least one heated discussion about directions. This is as certain as death and taxes. The satnav, a device you have trusted with your life, will inevitably betray you. It will declare with absolute certainty that the best route to your idyllic coastal campsite is through a medieval village apparently designed for nothing wider than a malnourished donkey. As the walls close in and the wing mirrors start to look nervous, the blame game begins. The driver blames the navigator. The navigator blames the satnav. The satnav, smugly, says nothing.

The key here is to establish a narrative of technological betrayal early on. Before you even set off, mention casually that you've heard reports of this particular model of satnav "having a bit of a moment" recently. This plants a seed of doubt. When it inevitably sends you towards a ford that looks suspiciously like a river, you can sigh knowingly and say, "Ah, see? It's done it again. The rogue." This deflects all blame from you and your co pilot, uniting you both against a common, inanimate enemy. It's you two against the world, or at least against a faulty piece of electronics. For bonus points, give the satnav a silly name like 'Susan' so you can shout things like, "Oh, Susan, you've really made a mess of it this time!"

A battle of wills, set to 21 degrees

Now, onto the thermostat. In a normal house, the thermostat war is a low level, simmering conflict. In a motorhome, it's World War Three in a tin box. One of you runs at a temperature best described as 'volcanic core', while the other is happiest when they can see their own breath. The person who is always cold will have the heating on full blast, turning the tiny living space into a mobile sauna. The person who is always hot will respond by opening every window and vent, creating a gale force wind that threatens to send the scatter cushions into low orbit.

There is no winning this war, only a fragile truce. The secret is distraction and subterfuge. If you're the cold one, don't just crank up the dial. Instead, make your partner a lovely cup of tea. The act of holding a warm mug will trick their brain into feeling warmer. If you're the hot one, don't just throw open the door. Suggest a brisk walk to "take in the lovely evening air." By the time you get back, the heat will have dissipated, and you'll have earned valuable brownie points for suggesting a romantic activity. It's not about finding a compromise; it's about manipulating the situation until you get your own way without the other person noticing. That, my friends, is the very definition of a successful relationship.

The mystery of the empty water tank

There is no moment of dawning horror quite like the one when you are mid shower, covered in soap, and the water splutters, coughs, and then dies completely. The life giving flow has ceased. The tank is empty. Someone, somewhere, has made a terrible, terrible mistake. But who? This is the eternal question, the unsolvable mystery that has plagued motorhomers since the dawn of time. You were sure you filled it. They were sure they checked it. And yet, here you are, shivering and soapy, with nothing but righteous indignation to keep you warm.

Blame is the only currency that matters in this situation. The person who discovers the empty tank has the immediate upper hand. They are the victim, the wronged party. The correct response is not to admit any possibility of fault. Instead, you must immediately launch a preemptive strike. "I can't believe you forgot to fill the water!" you must cry, even if you were the last person to use the hose. The sheer confidence of your accusation will sow doubt in their mind. They'll start to question their own memory. "Did I forget? I thought I did it… but maybe…" While they are reeling from this tactical masterstroke, you can wrap yourself in a towel and stride off, leaving them to grapple with their newfound guilt and the responsibility of finding the nearest tap. Job done.

The art of the confident reverse

Let's talk about reversing, because nothing separates the fakers from the genuine experts quite like a motorhome reverse. When you pull onto a campsite and every pitch requires a reverse in, the pressure is enormous. There are people watching. There are always people watching. They sit outside their motorhomes with a cup of tea and a biscuit, silently judging your every move like a panel of Olympic figure skating judges. One wobble and you'll be the talk of the site by teatime.

The trick is to commit. Hesitation is the enemy. Even if you have absolutely no idea whether you're going to end up on your pitch or in the hedge, do it with purpose. Wind down the window, stick your arm out, and reverse like you mean it. If your partner is outside doing the guiding, agree on the signals beforehand. And I mean really agree, because "a bit more" and "that's enough" mean wildly different things to different people. If it all goes wrong and you end up at a forty five degree angle to where you should be, simply get out, look at the pitch, and say loudly enough for the neighbours to hear, "Actually, I prefer it at this angle. Better for the morning sun." Confidence. It's everything.

If the worst happens and you stall it mid-manoeuvre, don't panic. This is a golden opportunity for some automotive theatre. With a world-weary sigh, get out, pop the bonnet, and stare into the engine bay with the thoughtful expression of a brain surgeon. Shake your head slowly, tut, and say to your partner (loud enough for the audience to hear), "It's done that thing again. We'll have to get it booked in." This masterstroke transforms you from an incompetent driver into the long-suffering owner of a temperamental vehicle. You'll probably get a few sympathetic nods.

The campsite shower block shuffle

No survival guide would be complete without addressing the campsite shower block. This is a place of great mystery and mild horror. You will need flip flops. You will need a towel the size of a bedsheet. And you will need the ability to get dressed in a space roughly the size of a phone box while standing in a puddle of indeterminate origin. The shower itself will have two settings: 'pressure washer' and 'light drizzle', with a temperature range that swings from 'surface of the sun' to 'arctic plunge pool' with no warning whatsoever. And then there's the button. The dreaded push-button that delivers a pathetic seven-second burst of water before cutting out, forcing you into a frantic, one-handed dance. You're trying to lather up with one hand while your other hand is desperately jabbing at the wall like a woodpecker on a deadline. I understand the need to conserve water, I really do, but come on! It’s less of a shower and more of an endurance test. You emerge cleaner, yes, but also with a mild repetitive strain injury.

The real skill here is timing. Go too early and you'll be fighting for a cubicle with every early riser on the site. Go too late and you'll find the hot water has been used up by the family of twelve in pitch 47 who apparently all needed to wash their hair twice. The sweet spot is around 9:15am, when the early birds have gone and the late risers haven't surfaced yet. Walk in, nod confidently at anyone you pass, and act like you've been doing this for years. Nobody needs to know that you forgot your shampoo and are about to wash your hair with hand soap. That's between you and the shower curtain.

The unwritten rules of the campsite

Finally, a word on campsite etiquette, because getting this wrong will blow your cover faster than anything else. There are rules, and then there are the unwritten rules. The written ones are easy: don't make noise after 10pm, don't let your dog run riot, and don't park on someone else's pitch. The unwritten ones are where it gets complicated. You must wave at everyone you pass. You must comment on the weather at least three times a day. And you must, under absolutely no circumstances, look directly into someone else's motorhome through their window. That's basically espionage.

If a fellow motorhomer comes over for a chat, you must be prepared to discuss three things: where you've come from, where you're going next, and what you think of the facilities. Have your answers ready. If they ask what model your motorhome is and you can't remember, just say something vague like, "Oh, it's the 2019 model, the one with the upgraded habitation door." Nobody will question this. If they start talking about payload weights and MTPLM, just nod slowly and say, "Absolutely, couldn't agree more." Then excuse yourself to "check on the gas" and Google everything they just said. You'll be fine. We're all pretending. Every single one of us.