We get a long glorious lift across Bodmin Moor and pitch our tent on the sly in the darkness in a caravan park. In the toilets next morning a giant of a man wearing an orange wig with the lining showing through empties a chamber pot into a toilet. His caravan turns out to be next to our tent, and he asks us in for a cup of tea, served by his sister, who has Baby Jane make up and is dressed like a 60 year old Dorothy. We sip the unbelievably sweet tea, avoid each other’s eye, and are polite.