It is tippling down here at the moment. We’ve had two gorgeous weeks and so one mustn’t complain – and anyway, for me there is a certain nostalgic appeal of being inside a motorhome, and hearing the sound of rain on its roof.

The reason for this is simple: even the most modern motorhome has the same interior feel as a caravan from the late 1950s. And my holidays in those days consisted largely of being in North Wales for the two-week summer break. At that time, almost all lower-middle class families from Manchester holidayed in North Wales.

It rains a great deal in North Wales, and I have less than fond memories of wet days in Rhyl, Prestatyn and Abergele, where the primus stove in the beach hut was constantly on the go….either to brew tea, or to huddle round for warmth. For a treat, we would repair of a rainy afternoon to the Rhyl Odeon, and watch sci-fi movies like The Incredible Shrinking Man, or Brit films like The Hell Drivers, featuring a young Stanley Baker. Occasionally there’d be a shlock Greek history B-Movie, nearly always starring Steve Reeves. They involved golden fleeces and minotaurs which, viewed from the perspective of 2014, look hysterically funny.

After the cinema, it wasn’t unusual for Dad to motor over to the nearest good chippy and buy us all six o’ fish with four o’ chips. This was the descriptor of the time for a sixpenny battered cod and four pence worth (a double helping) of fried chips. A decade before decimalisation, that was a meal leaving one replete to the point of discomfort for 3.8p in today’s UK money.

Some years we would borrow Stanley Spencer’s Caravan at Black Rock Sands near Pwhelli. Stan was one of my Dad’s rich clients, and so naturally he had a caravan all of his own, as opposed to just renting one for a fortnight. Such was the definition of untold wealth in 1961.

Most of the time, it rained there as well. But Dad and I would run up and down the dead-flat beach playing football (with a Frido plastic ball you could inflate with a bicycle pump) and on hot days I’d lie face down on the beach, the better to hide my erection as I gaped at young tits peeping pertly out of itzy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikinis.

But it’s the pitter-patter of rain on a caravan roof that always takes me back to that time. The confined space of motor homes offers the same sense of cosiness…of the elements being close enough to hear, and yet – through the miracle of man’s technological skill – unable to cause even the English holidaymaker discomfort.

Later in the decade, my school-chum Shaun Whittaker and I shared a caravan on Anglesey owned by his equally unfeasibly wealthy parents. It pissed down there too, but by then we were of an age to brazen it out at the local pub, and drink rather too much cider. I remember that the trek up the hill later to the municipal toilets (in order to vomit) was something perhaps cleverly designed by the local Council to jolt one back into sobriety.

The chief downside of the pouring rain here is that it will of course keep the two acres of grass growing like topsy. But equally, the occasional downpours make this region the verdant joy it is. Whereas North Wales is wet, misty and cold, down here the rain frequently gives way to baking heat. It is this weather combo that ensures the prunes, pears, apples and tomatoes come through bursting with flavour. In three weeks time the cherries will be ripe, and I hope to be serving up thumping great fruit pies as usual.

Builders willing, of course.

Earlier at The Slog: The confluence of events hastening market disasters