The caravan three vehicles in front, complete with satellite dish, go-faster stripes and 'Jesus is my Co-Driver' bumper sticker is labouring around the bends of this winding Somerset road and up shallow inclines with all the dynamism of John Kerry. So cumbersome is the beast that the driver apparently cannot see the long zig-zag of cars feinting and retreating in a long queue behind him like a school of stressed-out pilot fish.

I'm tempted to overtake but then I check my rearview mirror and catch sight of a sleek, silver, teardrop shaped lump of metal with pleasing retro curves. The T@B, le dernier cri in caravan design, is so compact that it's easy to forget that you are towing it. It doesn't slow you down that much, just keeps you exactly to the speed limit, a wonderfully effective fibreglass and aluminium conscience.

It was love at first sight for Andrew and Julia Holder when they spotted a picture of the T@B caravan in a magazine, so they decided to import one from Belgium. They have since bought another and hire them out for the week or weekends, under the name Swiftsilver.

How cool is caravanning? Talking to friends two theories emerge. One, that it's like having an ugly best friend - surrounding yourself with uncool stuff makes you look all the cooler. Two, that caravanning is cool in a retro, hippyish kind of way, with overtones of the traveller movement and circuses.

(Incidentally, people tell me the word 'cool' is no longer cool, or, that is to say, no longer 'phat'. To paraphrase Grandpa Simpson: 'I used to be with it, but then they changed what "it" is.') Whatever. In a totally square, Famous Five (ie un-phat) way, there is something fun about the idea of a weekend's caravanning.

My girlfriend Siobhan and I had spent one night in the caravan site attached to the National Trust property at Stourhead, in Wiltshire, and were now heading for one at Kentsford Farm, just outside Watchet, where Coleridge wrote The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The caravan site at Kentsford Farm is a vast and beautiful orchard, trees groaning with cider apples, begging to be scrumped, peacocks, guinea fowls and strange turkey-like ducks grimble around the place, a brook babbles past, and to complete the Enid Blyton theme there's a steam train that toots past every hour or so. Irritatingly we are not presented with fresh eggs although, lacking Julian's initiative, we didn't ask for any.

Both places we stayed at were Caravan Club sites, and if the others are as stunning and well located as this, then I can see the appeal of caravanning. Basically you pitch up, hand over a fiver, untether your caravan, wind out the legs etc in a process that lasts about five minutes and, with the night's billet secure and snug, are then free to head off on an adventure - or alternatively make a cup of tea.

The T@B is a very neat piece of design indeed, weighing just 520 kilos - that's three Marlon Brandos circa 1995 - it manages to fit a good-sized double bed, table, booth, fridge, sink, cooker, storage space and even a chemical toilet in its snug interior. Electric lights and a heater ensure an ambient, liveable space - albeit tiny. It also looks phat. A stately pleasure dome indeed.

So off we zip to Nether Stowey and take a look around Coleridge's tiny cottage, the one where he hung out with Will Wordsworth, got mumbled on opium and was fortunate enough to be disturbed by a postman just when his poem 'Kubla Khan' was threatening to go the way of Jilly Cooper's Riders. We yomped off onto the spine of the heather-coated Quantock hills and the wonderful 360 degree view that so inspired the royalty of romantic writing.

Here's a teaser: on one hand we could cook on the tiny two-ring stove in the caravan (and wash up) or we could get a Michelin-starred chef to do it for us at the Rising Sun at West Bagborough. Hmmmm. If you're ever anywhere in Somerset go to this place. The food was absolutely delicious, the young staff very friendly, and the prices reasonable. After a drink at a harbourside inn in Watchet we headed back to the caravan for a game of chess. What else is there to do? In bed by 11.30pm - oh the joys of the countryside.

Waking up in a caravan is weird. First, you have to work out where you are ('oh yes, in a caravan') and then you have to work out where it is. Without leaving the bed (I told you it was compact), I griddled some mushrooms we'd bought at Frome farmers' market.

I've always suspected that caravanners were misanthropic creatures (no need to grunt a good morning to the proprietor of the B&B) and my prejudices seemed to be justified by the fact that most Caravan Club sites have a maximum capacity of five vans even though they are often gigantic fields. However, the sight of our quirky abode was enough to break down their instinctive reticence. Apologising for bothering us, they came over to shyly offer their congratulations on having such an 'unusual' looking caravan.

'I just had to come over ...' was a common opening gambit to justify this breakdown of caravan-site decorum. I felt like the Pied Piper. I had visions of a phalanx of caravans, our T@B in the front, picking up converts en route, heading off o'er hill and dale towards London to preach the joys of caravanning at Hyde Park Corner.

But on site the T@B was singing to the choir. So for research purposes Siobhan and I tried to gauge the reactions we evinced from the youthful general public we passed in the small towns. It's hard to be sure, but I swear the slack jaw of one youth, hanging from the branch of a horse chestnut tree, tightened considerably as we swept past, and at one pedestrian crossing a baby gave a shy smile and possibly even a wink. Comments about the tallest pygmy be damned, I hadn't been this popular since I broke my arm at primary school.

Then I got into a bit of trouble when we took a wrong turn out of Bridgwater. Trying to do a three-point turn was a mistake. A crowd of people stood and stared as I jackknifed the caravan, stymying further attempts to move backwards. Red faced and panicking I drew unwanted attention by mistakenly honking the horn. Siobhan helpfully doubled up in laughter as I ploughed on to find the next industrial estate large enough to turn in. When I got there I realised that the turning circle was tiny anyway.

Ego aside, does the hiring and hauling of a T@B improve the weekend in the country? Well it's an encumbrance (but not much of one) when you're dragging it, and somewhere between a tent and a B&B room when you stay in it. There's no shower, and due to bad planning we ended up at caravan sites without one, so it was a washing-free weekend. I have no nostalgic memories of caravanning as a kid to draw pleasure from, so it may not be right for me, but judging from the admiration we met in the caravanning fraternity, it obviously is with many.

Staff at Swiftsilver told me they've already got a few bookings for next year's Glastonbury festival, so what dry bate is tellin' me caravanning's not phat?

Factfile

Swiftsilver (01373 473073; swiftsilver.com) offers T@B caravans for hire and sale. One week's hire starts at £175, a weekend from £80. Collect from Frome, or the company can arrange to deliver the caravan to a nearby site.

Rising Sun at West Bagborough (01823 432 575); Kentsford Farm caravan site, Watchet (01984 631307); Stourhead caravan site (01747 840061).

Membership of the Caravan Club (01342 326944; caravanclub.co.uk), with more than 2,600 sites across the UK, costs £31.

Tom Templeton travelled with South West Trains (0845 600 0650; swtrains.co.uk) from Waterloo to Gillingham, Dorset. Network away breaks (up to five days) from £34.50.