The week we were at Combe Haven the resort was filled with - in the American vernacular - working class families.
These were tough looking blokes, plumbers, electricians, welders, men who worked long hours with their hands. Their faces were English, right out of central casting, world weary and weather beaten. Every last one of them looked like they were about to say, 'Right, Guv.'
The women too looked to be out of central casting, with soft, flat facial features. Some had high cheek bones and narrow eyes.
A lifetime of work made for solid bodies. Though some were big, almost no one was fat like an American. Almost everyone we saw had tattoos, lots of them.
The English children were indistinguishable from our own, and their parents dotted on them even as they down pints of beer and bitter. Many of those tattoos were the names and birthdays of their beloved children. These parents were going to considerable expense to give their children a special family vacation. Those caravans aren't cheap and ironically rented, ironically, from rich owners.
Parents allowed their children to stay up late. One night a large group of English kids played with our own. They asked after the girl's accents. 'We're Americans!'
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