Alone again in my campervan, I’m parked on a well-manicured grass pitch on a farm with horse rides near the gateway to the Yorkshire Dales: Skipton. The wind blows, the sun shines, and from my tiny window, all I can see are green lawns and skeleton trees drawn against the washed-out skyline. The only sound is the wind howling and the rustling of foliage next to the fiberglass cabin. The rickety vehicle from ’93 rocks gently in the January gale.
I’m grateful I can do this. Just drive off into the sunset in my tiny motorhome and escape somewhere close to home. I’ve called her Aunt Polly, after the formidable and ever-loyal matriarch from Peaky Blinders, who has Romani heritage. My van is a Citroën Romahome, designed to look like a wagon. Inside, the benches face each other, prefect for deep chats late at night. From the cushions you can build a bed, which is harder than you’d think after a few glasses of wine. The available space can only be described as cosy, with barely enough space for a small stove, sink, fridge, cabinet, and the small double bed. Underneath, plenty of storage for food, waterproof clothing and sleeping bags.
My womb-like retreat feels snug and warm, decked out in a mismatch of colours, fabrics and textures. A feathery dream catcher hangs from the storage shelf. Fairy lights are draped across both the width and length of the space. I light candles when I’m reading and drinking. Sometimes a glass of wine, most times just herbal tea.
To separate the living area from the cockpit, I have installed some old-school floral curtains that I salvaged from a bargain bin. The art deco inspired pattern clashes nicely with the mauve bench cushion covers. They are original, upholstered in a scratchy velour type fabric with plant motif. The tropical leaf pattern becomes visible as the direction of the fabric's tufts changes. The synthetic fibres create an optical illusion, a shadow play, as soft sunlight interacts with them differently depending on which way they point. A print without dye. A garish vision of the nineties. In Summer the texture leaves an itchy imprint on bare legs. Along the side of the van, there are windows framed with thick velvet drapes in a forest green shade.
One of the previous owners has stuck cheap looking wooden fishes all over the area we call the kitchen. They have diamanté eyes and are impossible to prise off the beige plastic surface of the wall. In stark contrast with the lush colours of the upholstery, the floor is covered with hard-wearing office carpet. Polly has seen better days and I’m fully aware that she drains my savings, but she takes me places. I must be good to her in return.
Out here, my eyes are like raisins, tiny and make-up-less. My face is a blank canvas of tanned, fresh skin. My wind-flushed cheeks are fixed in a contented smile. People who see me kick about the campsite, happy yet alone, would struggle to categorise me.
Is she a student? Or a recent divorcee?
With my steadfast walk to the sanitary facilities, they’d see a person who is six feet tall, with a longish yet beaming face and a nose that is committed to its own shape. Carrying a bowl full of dirty pots and carefully holding a lidded saucepan, upper body leaning slightly forward while maintaining a straight back to get there faster. Unnoticed. They wouldn’t have put it past me that the pan contains last night’s bedtime wee to be disposed of discreetly. Underwear may or may not have been changed the day before.
Out here, you can simply exist. It doesn’t matter what you look like or how you behave.
These weekends away were born out of the need to be alone, away from my D. and his teenage daughter. Don’t get me wrong, they are wonderful people, but they get a bit much. I’m the type of person who likes their own company best, especially after a long workweek. Camping recharges my batteries.
My trips give me the time to write, reflect, and simply exist without the pressure of being nice or useful. There’s no need to smile, listen, or pretend to be someone I’m not. In my van, I stay in bed journalling and doodling until one in the afternoon, after a night of binge-reading. In my own good time, I get up and drag myself out for another run. Running becomes a form of exploration rather than a pursuit of speed or exercise. I take woodland trails, canal towpaths and city streets at my own pace, allowing me to fully take in the beauty of the natural world.
