YOU’D need the patience of a saint to trundle along at a snail’s pace behind a towed caravan and not utter at least one expletive.

Even if you like caravans - and I love them - it’s annoying to be driving behind one on a country road, with a limited window for overtaking.

So journalist Mike Parry could have been forgiven for his recent TV rant about caravans clogging up roads in summer. Even when he suggested a curfew for towing caravans, I might have let it go. But he went too far when he dissed caravans as ‘an eyesore’. He likened them to tin cans, and said people who use them ‘don’t wear proper clothes’. The cheek of the man!

Those people who Parry says squash into caravans like ‘hamsters in a sandwich’ (a metaphor I’m not sure really works btw) are my people. And on behalf of this nation’s proud community of caravanners, I am bristling with indignation.

Appearing on ITV’s Good Morning Britain, Parry raged about getting stuck behind caravans in his £70,000 Jag. He branded caravans unfashionable, said they belonged in the 1950s, and wouldn’t even be welcome in prisons. And with more caravans on UK roads this staycation summer, he wants a 10pm-6am curfew on when they can be towed.

Caravans aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, and yes they’re old-fashioned, and a bit naff. But that’s part of the charm. There is something delightfully eccentric about a ‘home from home’ holiday where you take your own tea-towels and washing-up brush. And with the expense and hassle of overseas trips right now, UK caravan sites are booming.

I’ve been staying in caravans most of my life. When I was a child we had a static on the east coast, it was like a second home. We’d set off at Friday teatime for the weekend - three kids, a dog and two cats piled into the car. Along the way our dad would point out the latest construction stage of the Humber Bridge, and it speaks volumes for a Seventies childhood that we were quite awestruck by this mighty feat of civil engineering.

Compared to today’s caravan parks, with their mini marts, gin bars, X Factor turns and big money bingo, our site was far from glamorous. It overlooked a sprawling North Sea gas terminal, and the coastal erosion was so chronic that every year a row of caravans was shifted back from the cliff edge so they didn’t fall into the sea. On-site facilities consisted of a climbing frame by the bins and a clubhouse that looked like it belonged in downtown East Berlin. The tiny village down the road had just one shop, where you could expect to see in the window a Victoria sponge next to a tin of talcum powder, some sausages and a pair of men’s shoes. On Sunday mornings we’d head for the dizzy metropolis of Withernsea market.

But I loved that caravan, even when it rained. I fondly recall playing cards at the fold-out table with the rain beating at the window - a sound I still love. I stay in caravans every year, they’re a world apart from the statics of the Seventies. Some open out onto decking for al freso dining, and have mock wood burners and proper furniture, instead of dining stools nailed to the floor. There’s mood lighting and muted colours - not a whiff of orange and brown curtains, once a staple feature of every caravan. But even high end lodges have a cosy charm.

Caravans of all sizes are great for family holidays; my niece and nephews love them just as we did as kids.

Next time you’re stuck behind one on the A1, just remember - that quirky little RV holds a lifetime of happy memories.