Start Bay Caravan And Motorhome Club Campsite

You know that feeling when you’ve been driving for what feels like three lifetimes, and your back has formed a permanent indent from the car seat? That’s exactly the moment you pull into Start Bay Caravan And Motorhome Club Campsite. It’s like the universe finally says, “Okay, you win, here’s a cold drink and a field full of happy families.” The first thing you notice is the breeze off the coast, which smells like chips and salt, and you instantly forget the motorway.

Pitching Up Without the Panic

Unhitching your caravan is like performing a complicated dance you only half-remember. At Start Bay, nobody judges you for taking three attempts to reverse into your pitch. Honestly, I saw a guy in a motorhome do a seven-point turn with the confidence of a man parallel parking a cruise ship, and nobody batted an eye. The pitches are generous, so you won’t be elbow-to-elbow with your neighbor’s inflatable flamingo.

The ground is flat enough that your caravan won’t turn into a funfair ride every time you walk to the loo. And let’s talk about those facilities: the showers are so warm and powerful you might actually weep a little. It’s the little luxuries—like a shower that doesn’t require you to hold a button down while shivering—that make you feel like royalty.

The Real Star of the Show: The Beach

Here’s the thing about Start Bay: it’s not trying to be a glamorous resort. It’s the friendly, slightly soggy Labrador of campsites—loyal, unpretentious, and always up for a walk. The beach, Slapton Sands, is a short stumble down the lane. It’s a shingle bank that goes on forever, perfect for skipping stones or pretending you’re in a black-and-white film about stoic English fishermen.

You’ll see kids building castles that the tide will mercilessly destroy, and adults staring at the horizon like they’re solving the mysteries of the universe. I tried to build a sandcastle once. It looked more like a sad, lumpy potato. But that’s the beauty of it—nobody cares. The dogs here have the best lives, chasing tennis balls until they collapse in a happy heap.

When Nature Puts On a Show

If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a sunset that looks like someone spilled orange juice across the sky. It’s the kind of view that makes you forget you left the awning poles in the shed. And the stars at night? They’re so bright you half expect them to start singing show tunes. I swear I saw a shooting star, but it was probably just a plane—still counts.

One evening, I sat outside with a cup of tea, and a rabbit hopped past like it owned the place. That rabbit had more confidence than I’ve had in my entire adult life. It’s moments like that—simple, unplanned—that make Start Bay feel like a secret handshake with nature.

The Campsite Community (and the Toilet Block Gossip)

The best thing about a club campsite is the accidental friendships you make. You’ll find yourself chatting to a retired couple from Yorkshire about the best type of awning peg, as if it’s the most fascinating topic on earth. Spoiler: it’s not, but you’ll nod along anyway. There’s a quiet camaraderie in standing at the chemical toilet disposal point, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Kids run around on bikes, waving at strangers like they’re old mates. And the dog walkers form a silent pact to avoid the muddy patch by the gate. If you forget a bottle opener, someone will loan you one, and you’ll feel like you’ve joined a secret society. It’s like summer camp for adults, but with more wine and fewer trust falls.

Food, Glorious Food (Or, The Battle of the BBQ)

Cooking at a campsite is a performance art. You’ll see people with gas stoves that look like they belong on a space station, and others charring sausages over a disposable grill. I once tried to cook a steak on a portable stove, and I ended up setting off the smoke alarm in my motorhome. I just waved a tea towel at it and pretended I was “smoking” the meat.

For the less adventurous, the local pub is a five-minute walk. The fish and chips are so fresh you can practically hear the sea. And if you’re lazy like me, you’ll just eat a block of cheese and call it “grazing.” No judgment.

The Final Verdict (and the Honest Truth)

Start Bay isn’t a five-star resort with infinity pools and butlers. It’s a place where your hair gets salty, your shoes get sandy, and your soul gets a much-needed reboot. You’ll leave with a tan line from your watch, a bag of gritty washing, and a memory of a perfect, dopey sunset. I once left my keys in the fridge and spent twenty minutes looking for them. That’s the kind of place it is—safe enough to be a little ridiculous.

So pack your wellies, bring extra tea bags, and prepare to be charmed by a campsite that feels like a hug from an old friend. You’ll smile, nod, and probably forget your own name by day two. And that’s exactly the point.