When you pull into the car park, you’ll notice something odd: the smell. It’s a potent mix of fried onions, suncream, and the faint, hopeful tang of a swimming pool that’s been chlorinated to within an inch of its life. Don’t worry, that’s the scent of a good time.
The park itself is a sprawling patchwork of static caravans, but don’t let the word “caravan” fool you. These aren’t the cramped, tinny boxes your granddad towed to Cornwall in the 80s. Some of these are palatial—with central heating, double glazing, and enough room to lose a small child for at least forty-five minutes. I’m convinced some of the “Luxury” models have more square footage than a London flat, just with better views of a field.
The Wildlife (And Other Unexpected Guests)
Now, the park is named after Marton Mere, a nature reserve lake right on the doorstep. This means you get bonus wildlife. We’re not just talking about the odd pigeon. You’ll see swans that look like they’re judging your choice of inflatable, and herons that stand motionless for hours, clearly plotting something. I swear one of them gave me a side-eye when I opened my bag of crisps.
But the real stars? The rabbits. They are everywhere. They’ve become so brazen they now have their own social structure, with the teenage ones probably vaping behind the bins. It’s basically a live-action Disney movie, but with more rain and lower musical standards.
