Home again, home again....

We are loving our itinerant lifestyle! We've stayed in some funny places, like a cattle auction mart in snowy upland country, a muddy picnic spot next to a reservoir and a harbour. One night we shared a town centre car park with overnighting lorry drivers and ‘enjoyed’ being serenaded by a church that belled the time - 1.00 am, 2.00 am, 3.00 am, each half hour…….. 😱😱 

We have also taken advantage of our Caravan and Motorhome Club membership occasionally. We get an electric hook up that enables us to charge up essential equipment like phones, laptops and our vacuum cleaner. We get a decent shower, laundry facilities and an opportunity to muck out the van. Believe me, it's been a challenge keeping our space clean when we have two dogs who like mud-larking! Thankfully there are some very useful things on the market these days, like a big spongy towel (Aquasorb) that does a great job of cleaning up the dogs and we wouldn't be without our big (plastic!!!) trug for bathing them and for keeping our own muddy boots in. Also, Hymer, very thoughtfully, included an outside shower on our van. Good thinking, Hymer!!

German engineering and design has a good reputation and I now understand why. This 12 year old van is really robust and every possible convenience has been considered. There’s a place for everything and it keeps us snug, even in sub-zero temperatures. Amazingly, we have lived in it with two lively dogs for three weeks without once feeling the need to kill each other. I hope I speak for Gareth here too, though he has sometimes expressed exasperation at my lack of mechanical insight 🙄😏His knowledge of the workings of our rig is now quite detailed. Mine extends to knowing the best way to store our crockery, food stores, clothing and bedding in the most accessible and  least precarious way.

We are seeing parts of the UK that we have never before visited and the slow journey has sometimes given us pause for thought. Parts of the country that I imagined would be desolate and deprived, are, in fact, beautiful, well cared for and vibrant. Our impression of our father-and-mother land as we re-entered it from the wealthy Marches, however, is of a land almost forgotten. In general, housing is noticeably more poorly built, often incoherent with the surroundings, un-maintained and littered with all kinds of things; everything that signals either a struggle to make ends meet or what feels like ignorance and a ‘don't care’ attitude. Wales is a beautiful little country, but leaving the homeland to travel to other parts of the UK opens the eyes and the mind and it's saddening to see so clearly how Wales’ naturally democratic outlook has made for a an eclecticism of architecture that mostly struggles to look charming. 

So what next? Hmmm……. Our slow journey south again, visiting family along the way and exploring highways and byways we have previously passed by in a hurry to get somewhere has terminated in Killay. Parked up opposite Owen and Jess’s awaiting the start of caravan season, we are turning our attention to house hunting again. The little house here in Killay that we have made an offer on (an ugly little place - still a ‘sow’s ear’ in spite of the present owner’s efforts to make a silk purse of it) has revealed itself to have a problem. Our confidence in the choice is once again disturbed so we have held back until it is resolved. Searching the Internet for other possibilities, it seems that the pickings are a bit thin. So, watch this space….. again.

Reflections in a muddy puddle (the puddle being my mind)

The last pot of honey

Sigh! My porridge will never be the same! For five years we have had a jar of honey on the breakfast table, honey produced by our own bees in our own garden. The last, now empty jar is a symbol of how our lives have taken a very different track from the one we were headed on five years ago. 

Back then, in 2013, we had a five star B&B business, a large house and garden and working to supply our guests with a king’s breakfast - free range eggs from our own chickens, home baked organic breads and muffins, apple juice from our own apple tree, locally produced bacon, cockles and laverbread, high quality, locally sourced dairy goods, and our own honey. Our breakfasts were always well received and and at one point we extended our hospitality with afternoon teas and an evening meal menu. Persuaded by my son, William, we established a vegetable garden, in spite of Gareth’s reluctance to dig up the lawn and erect some greenhouses. My darling boy took on the role of head gardener, planted some potatoes and various other things and then promptly moved off in search of a life with his lady love. I kept it going for a while until caring for my parents took over.

I digress a bit. The point I am making is that things have changed considerably since then. The death of four parents and the associated house clearances changed our outlook completely. Life is too short. Everybody says so, and the opportunities for manifesting our dreams are few and far between in the busy years. So we reviewed our situation and came up with the current one of ‘living differently’; differently from the way we had been living anyway. As I've already told you, there are loads of people doing what we are doing right now, travelling around the country in motorhomes or caravans, leaving the day-to-day concerns of ‘standard’ lifestyles behind. Happy, healthy and affluent retirement is a fact for many of my generation and they are busily spending their children’s inheritance (I know that's a sweeping generalisation, but it's what the younger generation like to think).

Affluence is a relative notion of course (it depends on whether your relatives have more money than you 😉) and Gareth and I are trying to live our new life as un-affluently as possible. And herein lies a dilemma. Ethics for me isn't a place in the south of England (as my father used to joke) and I like to think that I am ecologically sensitive and actively Earth-caring. Plastic waste is something I have railed against and I have vowed to reduce my own use of the material. Try doing so when you're trying to live cheaply, though, and it seems impossible! Yes, we recycle, but that's a bit like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. 

Another value that I tried to uphold is community support and non-reliance on the Big Corps. In running our B&B we found that without cutting our costs considerably we were earning well below the minimum wage. Cost cutting unfortunately entailed supermarket shopping instead of from small local producers and retailers. I am ashamed to say that as we travel about in our camper our   food store is almost entirely supermarket bought apart from milk, bread and eggs that we buy along the way. The lovely little towns and villages that we have passed through are dotted with little businesses trying to eke out a living, as we did with the B&B. Each depends on enticing locals and tourists to come in and buy. The appearance of motorhomers in February must be a welcome sight, but a huge disappointment when they are seen eating their Lidl-bought lunches and dinners in their diesel spewing pods and then moving on.

Gareth is all for economy; our economy, that is. Left to me, we’d be bankrupt by now. I'd have supported every little restaurant, tea room, bakery and gift shop, be fat and diabetic and have more stuff to carry than we have room for (and it wouldn't be plastic). He has actively found us cheap campsites, researched every item for best prices (which are inevitably via Amazon) and avoided parking charges with a passion.  Maybe Ethics really is somewhere in the south of England.

Having now travelled from coast to coast through Lancashire and Yorkshire at the moment we are parked up at my sister’s campground in Lincolnshire for a few days and as you can tell, I am finding time to reflect on these things. At the age of 64 I am still a bit of an idealist. Realism doesn't and never has affected me much; that's what Gareth is for. 

The North!

Well, we've been up hill and down dale literally. We've been three days in the Yorkshire Dales and now we're in the Yorkshire Moors. We've bounced and rattled through all sorts of terrain, enjoying all kinds of weather and putting our camper firmly to the test. And today was a big test!

I like to think I'm a pretty decent navigator. I have good sense of direction certainly, though I do have some difficulty reading our road map, even with my reading glasses (don't talk to me about Sat Navs!) Yes, I had seen a note on our camping club map about something called Sutton Banks and as we headed for the moors after some shopping in Thirsk we also saw ‘No caravans this way’ signs along the road we were taking. Intrigued, and confident that we aren't exactly a caravan, we trundled along passing each and every warning sign. I was bemused by the last sign which suggested doom and then, there it was! The land reared up suddenly before us and a 25% hairpin climb took us completely by surprise. It was scary! Gareth paled and the van laboured up the slope as he changed down into lowest gear. With each bend and each flashing ‘25% climb’ warning of disaster I didn't dare look backwards and down to where the road we had come along so blithely met the bottom of the cliff. Thankfully we did reach the top and we could breathe again. We pulled into a National Park car park and put the kettle on. All of our pots, pans and fridge contents had remained safely in place and we could be happy that our recent haul from Lidl hadn't ended up in a messy pile at the bottom of Sutton Banks. Phew! 

It wasn't the only scare today, though, and we learnt another lesson. I'm up at night writing this because I can't sleep for thinking about it. Sutton Banks being a spectacular landscape feature we thought we should take a look and give the dogs a run at the same time. A properly accessible footpath struck out along the Cleveland Way and we wellied our way along it, dogs gaily springing and muddying themselves. A few days ago Gareth had remonstrated with me for letting the dogs loose in unknown territory and for narrowly avoiding a trip to the vet after having to extricate Bess from a barbed wire fence. Today we lost Pwdin. Gareth whistled and whistled, whistled, called and whistled. I panicked, having seen that the wooded edge to the pathway hid a sheer drop. I had been nervous about it but Gareth had been happy for the dogs to scurry around in the undergrowth doing what spaniels do and now there was no sign of her. Pwdin doesn't bark either, and we knew that if she was in trouble we wouldn't find her by listening out for her. Bless her, she eventually, after what felt like ages, reappeared out of the shrubbery on the steep side, out of breath but seemingly unharmed. It's at times like that you wish your pets can talk. We'll never know what the episode was from her perspective.

That wasn't all, either. Shaken, but relieved (and Gareth shamefaced that he'd been so careless with the dogs), we headed back to the van. A suitable puddle in which to swill off my muddy boots proved to be water over a slab of ice down onto which I inevitably fell and on which I then slithered around like a jellied eel (do they slither?) trying to get up again. I've never felt so much like an old lady as I wriggled about and had to be helped up by another tourist (yes, Gareth came to my rescue too, when he saw what was happening, though he did ask the stupidest question - “What on earth are you doing?”). 

So that was our ungainly introduction to the Yorkshire Moors. Southerners that we are, we've been unprepared for February weather in The North. Gareth almost got frostbite one day taking photos at a high point between Paterly and Grassington. The place is called Coldstones, and we found out why! The view was terrific though.

Anyway, we are parked up for the night in a beautiful Yorkshire town called Helmsley. A couple of bottles of Rioja relieved the shock and indignity of my fall, though the bruises are starting, now, to hurt. Poor Pwdin hasn't had any Rioja to help her over her shock. She’s been much more subdued tonight. I wonder if in her sleep she's reliving her close encounter with death.

First proper trip

Poor Gareth. This whole motorhome acquisition event has had the shine taken off it, first by the hassle we had getting our money back for the first one, and now by a fluey cold (is it man-flu, though, I wonder). Our plan to join the family in Stoke this weekend was thwarted by a virus! Concerned that flu might be brewing I insisted we wait a day before getting on the road. It did give us a bit more time to organise the van and on Sunday, we headed off through mid-Wales, anticipating an early camp so that the poorly captain could get some rest. In the event, we kept going (or Gareth, as driver, kept going, drinking strong coffee and sucking cough sweets). We hoped we might make it to a campsite near Stoke and still have some time with the family. Tall order. So we booked ahead to a nice club site near Oswestry (Lady Margaret’s Caravan and Motorhome Club site), arrived in the dark and opened the wine! Chillax! 

We're actually heading for Preston. On Tuesday morning we have to be at a motorhome service centre run by a Hymer enthusiast and specialist. The van was booked in for a couple of repairs before we bought it, so Preston is where we have to go. From there - who knows where we might wander. Everything we need is on board.

In terms of this being an exercise in living differently, apparently we aren't so different after all! There are loads of people out on the roads in motorhomes and caravans, going and stopping where the fancy takes them. We were surprised this evening to find this site quite full! And it's a large site! The term “travellers” usually denotes unwashed anarchists in decrepit eccentric trucks, travelling in convoys to wander the countryside making a mess of farmers’ land. However, there is definitely a sector of travellers that are well heeled and conventional in every club membership, satellite TV subscribing, Sunday car-washing, fleece-wearing, M&S shopping respect (sorry, have I just created another stereotype? We don't entirely conform to that one, either). Fat pensions or inheritances have enabled the current older generation to live like birds, and wave at other travellers as they pass each other on the highways and byways. It's another fellowship. Most, of course, have a paid-for home to go home to as well, I suspect, unlike us for whom ‘home’, currently, is a collection of stuff distributed between two sons’ properties, a storage unit and a static caravan. The latter will be our abode once the season starts. Yes, we are buying a house, but we won't be living in it ourselves initially. We will rent it out in order to pay for travel.

Tonight (Monday) we are at Southport in a club site poised to get to Preston early tomorrow. Attached are some photos taken at a beach spot nearby. It's near Pontins and it's clear that the place has seen more vibrant times!

By the way - something to make you smile. When I mentioned in the previous blog post about our not-checking-the-toilet-cassette mistake, I didn't say that while we have a bucket on board…..it's a collapsible one!

Got it!

Motorhomers at last! Yes, the second camper fits the bill! It has its idiosyncrasies but it supplies Gareth with enough trouble-shooting activities and improvement possibilities to keep him happily occupied. In fact, he's so happy that he isn't bemoaning the cold he's caught and seems to be coping with the sore hip, even though he has to clamber up into a high bed each night.

We've been back in Gower with the van since Saturday, camped up in Killay so as to catch up with Owen, Jess, Reuben and Ivy, and prep the camper for a month of living in it. Cheap skates as we are, we've camped ‘wild’ a few nights in the community centre car park. First lesson - make sure to have enough gas to keep you warm when the temperature outside is below freezing! Getting out of bed and preparing the rig to move off before dawn just to get some heat from the engine, isn't the best way to do this! Also, arriving at a basic campsite in the dark, taking ages to find a level spot, only to find that the toilet cassette is full and the local ‘facilities’ unusable, is not clever either!

Anyway, after a night with a couple of bottles of wine, Gareth doing his tax return and the wind rocking us gently as the spirits sang in the waves on the beach next to us, we woke to see day breaking over the beautiful estuary that has been, and still is home to us. We can see across the water to each of the places we have lived in Gower. Do we miss those places? No! Gower is still there for us but now, happily, we are free to roam.