Editorial: All hail, caravan of love

Caravans are a awesome way to spend the summer.

I'm officially the latest member of the caravan club.

My latest 12-foot acquisition isn't a swanky modern number, but a real caravan.

By that I mean it's retro. And by that I mean it was born in the '70s - like me.

The warrant tells me it's a Sprite Alpine model. I'm neither sprightly nor mountainous. I'm more of the sedentary, coastal persuasion. Hence the caravan's make is a bit of a misnomer.

Yet, as we're both products of the '70s, and hence contemporaries, there's a natural empathy. It contains everything great and garish of that decade's decor. It smacks of my childhood kitchen.

The purchase perhaps shows my years.

At a certain self-aware age some us tend to start collecting period pieces; surrounding ourselves with childhood touchstones in an attempt to stem the unforgiving minute.

These imperfect travel-homes remind me of the transcendental movement, where simplicity was worshipped. Put another way, they're a microcosm of the best rooms in any house - dining, lounging and sleeping become one.

Don't get me wrong, while it's of the Age of Aquarius era, I'm not intending to levitate in my new digs. Caravans already impart a state of otherness, a lovely triumph of tone.

Friends and colleagues have already suggested names for my new whare-motok. Any song with the word "caravan" in it, seems to suffice. I prefer Spanish Caravan, from The Doors' hit of the same name:

Carry me Caravan take me away

Take me to Portugal, take me to Spain

Andalusia with fields full of grain.

Idyllic Andalusia may be,

but I'm more inclined to

source a coastal pohutukawa, and park it.