“YEAH, you can take a photo. As long as you’re not going to post it on some weirdo porn site,” said the chick in the hot sausage van.

I guess you can never assume people’s motivations. It takes all types, as they say.

There we were at a Sunday market in a country Victorian town, besides the railway track. Wrong side of the track, judging by the van’s saucy graphics.

One of us was hungry, and was lured to the van with the smell of snags, but not any old snags. They had beef, bratwurst or bullboar, with or without onion, for four bucks.

That's my kinda lunch budget.

And they were being cooked in an irresistibly cute converted caravan.

It was the start of a week of caravan watching. Which inevitably happens when you’re staying at a caravan park.

Whether you want to or not, you find yourself comparing camp sites, equipment, the toileting routines of those you share the block with.

The custom among new arrivals seemed to be; set up camp, have an argument, or two, then do a lap around the site and check out eveyrone else's set up.

The leaky pop-top we borrowed from family complete with flapping tarp over the top – didn’t quite cut it among the professional rigs of the surrounding grey nomads, but for the next six days at least, it was home.

By the end of the trip we'd secretly given all our neighbours new identities – like Wildcat up the back – named for the puma graphic emblazoned across his fifth wheeler, and the general animalistic demeanour of his 24-7 shirtless self.

Apparently people let it all hang out in caravan parks – you should have seen the communal washing line. Bloomer line would have been a better descriptor. Not being used to the intricacies of park life, I'd say it took us a good five days to relax into the routine of camping – or glamping as I'd prefered to call it. That's glamour camping.

Alls you need to differentiate between camping and glamping is a choice retro cloth over the card table and a string of bunting between the annex posts. Flasho!

At the start of the week we were self-consciously wrapping our smalls in our towels and neatly brushing our hair (or at least I was) before flip flopping to the shower block in the morning.

By the end one of us was even caught relaxing in socks and thongs, eating cold cereal out of the only clean cup.

It was definitely time to go home.