I’ve lived in my camper van more or less continuously for three months now. It is my main house – we’ve travelled neigh on 6000 miles at the time of writing. I grabbed a pal and trekked 200 of these around Scotland and the Western Isles.
My van is an elderly 208 Merc with a 4-berth Pioneer cab built on. Coach-built they call this type. It is very ‘80s but has everything to cook with – a fridge, a sink, water pump, mini-shower room and, yes, one of those porta-potti things. To the uninitiated, this presented some desperate tricks – but we won’t go there, eh? Best not to wonder where things end up if that shove handle refuses to shift.
Nearly everyone longs to travel. We imagine ourselves cruising blissfully to explore lesser-known locations. We engage only in the visual sense when we speak thus. We think of the ever-changing view, the rolling road ahead and eating cheery, slung-together meals and drinking endless cups of tea/coffee. Living a gypsy life in a novelty house with everything scaled down has always appealed to me, so I could be out in the air with my sketchbook or go swimming from my doorstep.
But a large van cannot be parked easily just anywhere. Its height and weight make it heavy to manoeuvre, and it’s not much fun when it’s blowing a gale, the gas needs changing, the lights don’t work because a fuse in the zig system has popped, you lose things very easily in a small compact space, the tyres are a nightmare to get full pressure… I’m not complaining, I’m just a lot wiser!
Most of my friends and family are not surprised that I’ve opted for the Romany life. I like being seen as brave, fearless and unconventional. I also own feelings akin to to home sickness and loss about this time – but it doesn’t last for long!
It was the start of the process to put my house up for sale while having no feeling about buying another. Other people, and my own head, advised that I should. Safety, security, a roof over one’s head, an investment were all spelled out for me by those with the same responsibilities.
In my heart and in my blood I knew better…
As any parent knows, there is always the huge, tatty, squirly collection of your children’s early attack of artwork… Then there are all things that broke over the years and lurk in the corners of sheds and lofts, all waiting for the day when you would get a ‘round tuit’. Then there were the stacks of paperwork and coursework, which I had accumulated.
These bundles represented some major event in our lives, but now dealt with and in the past. Divorce papers, stuff from when I was obliged to stay in a woman’s refuge, school books, cards from all occasions and all the police statements referring to my two lad’s little adventures. Not things you understand, just learning the consequences. This process ground to halt on its own accord once it dawned on the lads that it was not cool to keep landing up in the Police Station. My, how they’ve grown. This part of life too had become woven into the fabric of the house and our 27 years there as a family.
So I just sat for days on end sometimes, just sorting through it all. I decreased the heaps until I ended up with a couple of packing cases of meaningful stuff and photographs. Amongst it are all my childhood diaries, some of the artwork and letters from my grandparents. I am going to store this. If I buy another house I should not wish to put everything in from the past time. Unnecessary baggage.
So, a natural ceremony began to formulate from the flow of events, the idea of cleansing, purifying fire in the dead pond pit at a last house party.
A reflection on my time could not pass without reference to the roles I had played there. As a wife and mother, then a single mother, then lover to a few men (one at a time!) ‘neath its roof. Most of them were disasters, but I shall not die curious. I’m a grandmother now, in a new skin.
From this home I embarked on my career as a teacher which led me eventually to the fascinating environment of Harperbury Hospital. This job finished in July, with the closure of the hospital, and it has been a big part of my life for ten years.
Friends helped me prepare a glorious Rite of Passage for my new journey. A ‘Cutting of Ties’ Watford Style. A reminder to me that stepping through might be a bit painful, I had chosen to do it, so best to manage it gracefully.
We sorted a pile of items which could be thrown into the fire with a few words to salute that time… Many kids paintings, broken wooden toys and my first attempts at oil painting – all sailed in with appropriate words. There were associated sanitary towels to mark the end of menstuation, of conception and a new kind of freedom in my body.
There were references to the old girl, setting out on a quest and just what that quest should be. After much red wine or similar, the vulgarity and sexual innuendo that followed made for a smashing time with laughter, tears and a good helping of community spirit. Quite a few folks stayed the night and left in the morning.
As an aside, I remember that after I’d finished burning my memorabilia, someone female discovered a pile of ‘girly magazines’ which I’d found in a boy’s cupboard: “And these can go an’ all”, she yelled as she threw them on the fire. Several of the lads came along, then , and with screams, tried to dive in and save these buxom damsels… “You can’t do that, there’s 30 quids worth there”, said one. The fire was doused, but did not go out. It was still smouldering and glowing the next day. I found that the morning wind had lifted various charred pages into the trees – so we had bits of female genitalia dangling from the plum tree! I think that playful spirit of the house hatched one last joke…
I feel different. I feel as if a new me has emerged and unfurling bright new wings. I feel free to return to some of the hobbies and pastimes I enjoyed as a maiden, or yearned to do.
I have let go of the baggage of the past (literally!) and kept only those aspects which are of benefit to me (all that sorting!). Of course the past lures me back with seductive tones from time to time, but I see it as experience and knowledge from which I have grown. The house party ceremony and the Rite of Passage to eldership/traveller helped process those feelings very effectively – with love and awareness from all involved.