THE WINNER

Never fret in Norfolk

Through the sea fret, that unpredictable Norfolk fog which swirls in from the North Sea, we can just make out the offshore gas platforms.

"That," she said with that intense, faraway gaze – she likes to put on that look that Lara was always doing in Dr Zhivago – "has come all the way from the Russian steppes." I thought she was looking more towards Belgium. I was going to say I doubted she could even point in the direction of Russia. I let it pass.

"I wonder what the steppes are like in August," she said. Shouldn't think they have many caravan parks. Not like here. They say you can walk right along Norfolk's coast stepping from one caravan roof to another.

"Wouldn't try it on our van roof," she said. "Fancy someone doing that when you're on the porta-potty!"

Before the fret crept in there were kids and dogs and dads splashing about, screaming with excitement. Mums were wrapped in towels behind wind-bent windbreaks, like colourful versions of those crumbling 1940s pillboxes lying half-buried along the beaches. Norfolk's coast is like that, Hi-de-Hi! meets Dad's Army.

Caravan parks and amusement parks and more caravan parks, stretching for miles along the clifftops. And each year thousands of holidaymakers look forward to their Norfolk caravanning or camping holiday for its simple, inexpensive freshness, frets and all.

Entertainment, too, can be 1940s vintage. Pier shows and Punch and Judy. Model boats on the boating lake. There's the second world war Muckleburgh Collection at Kelling, with dioramas of the Home Guard watching for enemy U-boats.

Another caravan arrives. You can tell that the elderly owners are veterans. They're unloading all the kit: barbecue, satellite dish, recliners, tables, spaniels – even a parrot. Bit like Colonel Gaddafi and that Bedouin tent he sets up outside the UN or in the foyer of Claridge's. Meant to mean he's living the simple life, but I bet it's got satellite telly. "The fret's lifting," she said, "Do you fancy taking the dog along the beach?" Wouldn't mind a paddle, and maybe some chips.

Sean lives in Waterbeach, Cambridgeshire

The judge: Guardian travel writer Dixe Wills said: "Sean's piece, with its juxtaposition of disparate images and original way in to his subject was a cut above the rest."

The prize: A nine-day Orkney and the Outer Hebrides tour for two with Rabbie's Trail Burners (rabbies.com).

RUNNERS-UP

The best in tents

I didn't plan to spend my first solo camping trip in Shropshire. I was heading further west, but a diversion was called for after my daughter rang: "Just heard Dad's off camping as well. He's found a lovely site in Wales …"

Now, I don't hate the man, but I didn't go to the trouble of getting divorced to end up on the next pitch to him. Barely half an hour would have passed before I experienced that familiar feeling of wanting to bash him over the head with a pan.

At Middle Woodbatch Farm (middlewoodbatchfarm.co.uk) outside Bishop's Castle, I bribed the farmer's seven-year-old son to help me put my tent up (50p, a bargain). Then took in the stunning view. Rolling hills, flocks of sheep and my kettle sliding off the stove thanks to the gradient.

My phone rang only once. It was my ex-husband. For one awful moment I thought he was stopping by to criticise the way I'd put the tent up.

"Sorry to bother you, but it's an emergency!"

"Oh God! What's happened?"

"Can you ring the Norwich camping centre for me? My tent's collapsed."

I gave myself a moment.

"Don't ever, ever use the words, 'it's an emergency', when your sentence goes on to contain the phrase 'Norwich camping centre'. Got that?"

Afterwards, I experienced a wave of happiness. Here I was, camping in one of the most beautiful corners of Britain. Alone. And, unlike my ex-husband, I was coping brilliantly.

Jo Bunting, Norwich

The last resort

I campervanned, in the Yorkshire Dales, to impress a man. This is not good motivation. You do need to be heavily blinkered to survive, but lust channels the mind nicely. So when eggs fall on your head from an overhead locker, you just laugh.

Vans are attractive to girls, as they are like dolls' houses, with cute cubbyholes for accessories. For men, rubbish, waste and sewage need subduing with spanners, hammers and hosepipes. You empty your own chamberpot, or your lover does it. Oh God, is this going to impress him?

You need to appropriate most of the cubbyholes, and pack only crease-proof couture. Remember that shaving legs in the shower will not be possible, as you will topple over on the soap and sever your femoral artery.

When you pass other vans on the road, you must wave wildly. Vanners are friendly, full of advice, often full of alcohol as well. Stay away from campsites, except for charging batteries and using the hairdryer. Caravanners hang out in campsites. They are the enemy. They get up early and noisily, and are more suburban – polyester slacks to our denim cut-offs.

Instead of campsites, camp wild. Find a C road and drive until you find the perfect spot. It should be horizontal, quiet and with a stunning view. This is where the van beats all comers. The sun is low, but still warm on your tired limbs, a breeze tickles your face and, shortly, aroma transmogrifies into matter and bangers and mash are served to you by the object of your lust. It's just heaven.

Ruth Herbert, Sheffield