Pulling into Crossways feels like arriving at a slightly posher version of your own back garden. The entrance is wide and welcoming, not like those sneaky driveways that make you reverse a motorhome through a hedge. You’re immediately handed a map so clear it could be used in a primary school geography test.
There’s the usual scramble of unhitching and levelling, which always looks like a frantic game of Twister. But here, the pitches are so generously sized you won’t accidentally elbow your neighbour in the face while winding down your awning. It’s the unspoken luxury of not having to say ‘sorry’ to the guy in the next van.
The Hard Ground That’s Actually Soft
You know that classic campsite problem where you spend an hour hammering in a tent peg, only for it to hit a rock and make a sound like a dying bell? At Crossways, the ground is polite. My dad once described it as “buttery chalk,” which is a weird term, but he was right. Everything goes in smoothly, even if you’re using a rubber mallet from 1985.
I swear the grass is maintained by a team of obsessive-compulsive gardeners with tiny scissors. It’s not just a field; it’s a green carpet that makes you feel slightly guilty for parking your muddy car on it.
