The ANWB Campsite

Strands of holiday boredom drift between campers and caravans. For a moment, the crackled air of the campsite smooths out when, near the entrance, the local youth roar past on their vélomoteurs.

A Dutchman with a hulking camper blocks our view. For some reason he spends the entire day glaring at us. His wife’s back has already gone home. They’re the sort who write letters to the editor, always vaguely aggrieved. Our dog, never shy about expressing his opinion, barks at them indignantly.

In the dark, on my way to the toilets, I’m blinded by sixteen headlights from a tow truck. With the solemn care of pallbearers removing a coffin from a hearse, the recovery crew unloads a dented Kip caravan.
The victims, three elderly women, spend half the night recounting their misfortune to anyone willing to listen. They keep their yellow safety vests on as long as there’s an audience to offer sympathetic applause.

In the morning, I see them drinking instant coffee beside their wounded Kip. They’re still wearing the vests, just in case. They look at me with hope as I walk by, I’m the only one they haven’t told yet.