A Van of One's Own Read online

  Contents

  About Biddy Wells

  Title Page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Biddy Wells grew up in south Wales and has been a writer all her life. She has a long-standing interest in folk music and has written scores of songs, many of which have been recorded in various musical ensembles. A decade ago she began writing prose, describing the life she saw around her through her particular lens. Her journey to Portugal marked the first time that her journal became a close and essential companion. She has a son and a daughter and currently lives in mid Wales with her partner. A Van of One’s Own is her first book.

  A Van of One’s Own

  Biddy Wells

  Part One

  This is one of those perfect moments. The morning is fresh, but not cold. The sun, now low, will rise up and shine all day in a bright blue sky, untroubled by clouds. There are a few clouds at this early hour, but they are small and round and are already dispersing into invisibility. Nothing dark and glowering, no aeroplane trails. I have moved my chair into the sun. It’s going to be a hot day.

  I am on the west coast of France, at a slightly overpriced campsite. There’s no one else around, though just one month ago tents, caravans and campervans would have been crammed cheek by jowl into this small area of grass plots, each one forty or so square metres and hemmed in with high hedges. It is old school French camping and I love it. I also love the fact that almost every town and village has a campsite like this. You rent your little plot and do what you like. Mostly that means you make a home of your holiday abode, putting out tables and chairs, a washing line, perhaps a barbecue. I prefer France out of season, and September seems to have the best weather/

  peacefulness balance. The weather this August was terrible, according to locals. I have come to think of August as the February of the summer: often an unsettling turning point between seasons. But if September has got its act together and settles into mellowness, it can be a golden month. The stirred-up Atlantic becomes calmer and clearer, the wind drops, and everything relaxes. Most outdoor pools have been drained, ready for the coming winter, though the pool here is still operational and, apparently, heated. That is what I am paying for, and I feel obliged to use it and get my money’s worth even though, in all honesty, it’s cold.

  I have just made a pot of tea. My teapot is the opposite of a Tardis – smaller than it looks – and it’s cracked. I didn’t mind at first, but over time the crack has become a dark, threatening scar. I keep the pot mostly for sentimental reasons and because it makes a good cup of tea. There might well come a time when I will no longer need to comment critically on every little thing, cracks in teapots or nasty clouds, but I am not there yet. A continuous stream of judgements compete for space in my brain. The first thought I had this morning was: ‘My life didn’t really have room for me in it.’ I wanted to write that down quickly, before I forgot it. My second thought was: ‘Must get the kettle on.’ My third, which was almost simultaneous, was: ‘It’s such a long way to the loos, and I have to go right now.’ In what order was I to achieve these vital tasks? Skip to the end: loos, kettle, write down thought. It was a high-risk strategy, but it worked.

  Ideas usually come to me when I am walking, driving or nearly asleep. I have had brilliant opening lines just appear in my mind, starting points that I thought would surely lead to writings worth reading (if only I’d had a pen!). Some seemed so good that I thought I could not possibly fail to remember them. I believed that I would store these treasures in my memory until some magic time when I would be less busy – a time of freedom, solitude and peace. I was hanging on for this pause in routine – an escape from the closed circles in my life. Life had become little more than a series of endlessly repeating cycles, or that’s how it had begun to feel. There was nothing wrong with any of its parts, but altogether it was making me weary. ‘Ennui’ describes the state I was in: dissatisfaction, tedium, lack of excitement. That sounds pretty accurate.

  I read the line that, sensibly, I have written down: ‘My life did not have room for me in it.’ No room for me, even though I have come to feel so small: like the reverse-Tardis teapot, not as big as I might appear. A feeling had been welling up inside me: an overwhelming desire to stretch my wings and expand somehow. I had to take the plunge, not wait for some fantasy future opportunity to come along. What was I waiting for, retirement?

  I can see how good my life was – how extremely fortunate I was to live in a beautiful part of an untroubled and relatively peaceful country. I had good work, money coming in and all the things that make for a liveable life – a life much easier than so many that have been ruined by the way the world is.

  I am truly grateful that I was born into this relative privilege, but being merely grateful is not enough. I’m not fulfilling my potential. I could assert that, at least, I am not living in a war zone, or starving, or homeless. But ‘at least’seems a flimsy, half-hearted way to live life.

  I think about people who have achieved great feats in the world of art, science, medicine and so on. But I am not one of them. I have made no mark, invented nothing. I am comfortable being ordinary, but uncomfortable with the place in which I find myself. I am unfulfilled – not fully present. I am waiting for something, marking time.

  I am grateful for my life, but perhaps real gratitude would mean using my privilege to go beyond merely struggling and getting through the day. Perhaps real gratitude would mean recognising, without guilt, my good fortune and running with it: celebrating it and using it to do something not half-hearted. I wonder what I can do with my good fortune.

  Today, though, I feel blessed. Here I am in the sunshine, free of the routines of my newly old life. I have the time and space to write, for the first time in years. The pen looping its way across the paper somehow untangles the twisted spaghetti in my head, and that feels very good. If it seems bit self-indulgent, I don’t care. The noisy road-sweeping lorry passes for the third time this morning. I don’t mind it; every time I go to France, there is always some machine disturbing the early part of the morning – life going on. It has nothing to do with me. I hear birds twittering in the small trees all around the site. Peace is relative. It’s all good.

  I am basking in a feeling of accomplishment. I saved up for this trip, prepared for it and found the courage to follow my heart, which meant working through some thoughts that tried pretty hard to prevent me from doing it. All that fear! ‘What am I doing giving up my home, security and income for a journey into the unknown? What will I have to come back to? Where will I belong?’ All this before I had made a single step on the road. And the answer is always the same: ‘I don’t know.’ But why am I doing it? That is easier to answer: I just have to be free.

  The sun is up above the treetops now. Something inside me has softened just a tad – melted, opened up. Maybe there could be a little bit of room for me. My sleepy-headed daughter emerges from her tent into the increasing heat. We drink tea in delicious silence.

  *

  For reasons I didn’t understand, I just knew I had to go to Portugal. This knowing had started many months earlier: a deep longing, which crept in during the night. I would wake up feeling that I just had to go there, to that unfamiliar place. I assumed this meant I would take a holiday with my partner, David. Previously, we had explored France together in his camper, which had been fun. Quietly, though, inside my mind, the notion grew into something much bigger than a holiday. We vaguely discussed making this trip together, but as things evolved over the spring it became clear that nobody was coming with me. If I wanted to go, I would have to go alone. Portugal is not all that far away, or exotic, or dangerous, but it fe
lt like a huge stretch for me to leave my partner, family, job and home and just go off. An overland solo trip lasting months in an ancient little campervan was not the kind of thing I did. But it was something I was about to do.

  The summer seemed to go on too long as I prepared to leave my old life. I had commitments until September, and while I tied up various loose ends people would ask the same handful of questions: ‘Where will you stay? How long are you going for? What will you do? When will you be back? Are you scared? Why Portugal?’ I didn’t know. Actually, I was scared. Fear gnawed at me a lot of the time as I prepared to leave, but it didn’t overwhelm my desire to go. I had decided to face my fear anyway. There was no question of my not going.

  One afternoon, my daughter phoned to say she had some leave from work and could come with me for the first few days of my trip, if I’d like.

  ‘But maybe that’ll take something away, Mum; maybe you need to do all of it alone?’ she asked. I thought it over really carefully for about five seconds.

  ‘No, it would be really wonderful for us to have some time together. It’s a precious opportunity,’ I told her. What a blessing it was that my daughter and I could share this small part of my big adventure. I had no return ticket, no re-entry protocol and no plans about coming back.

  The twenty-year-old van I’d bought two weeks before the start of my trip was fairly small and quite rusty, but seemed to be mechanically sound. Most importantly, it was cheap, thus making the trip a possibility rather than a fantasy. It spent a week in the garage being serviced and prepared for all that might happen on the road, and another week being equipped with a solar panel, lighting and 12v power. It had already been converted into a camper with a basic kitchen and a very comfortable sofa bed. We set off from Wales one warm September morning, my daughter and me. I learned to drive the van as we headed for the ferry to France. We also had a brand new GPS that my brother had given me for my birthday – it arrived the day before we left. My daughter named it Tanya, as she thought its female voice sounded a bit Tanya-like. I had just decided upon Myfanwy for the van, and so it became a girlie sort of road trip. All went well: we sailed to Roscoff and on our route from Brittany to Bordeaux, where my daughter and I said goodbye, we stayed at some lovely little camp sites, enjoying beachlife and lovely lunches. I couldn’t have asked for a more auspicious beginning to my journey.

  Swinging by the airport had looked very simple when I was back home browsing the map, even for a wimp like me who doesn’t do airports, let alone in an unfamiliar country whilst driving a long wheelbase van on the wrong side of the road and all. I knew nothing about terminals and parking and limited height barriers. Now I do, and it’s quite straightforward, of course; but leaving the airport, I wove through hot Saturday traffic with a lump in my throat and a rising feeling of anxiety. What did I think I was doing? I was alone in a strange place, with no real plan except to get to Portugal within a few weeks. It suddenly felt pointless and overwhelming. I pulled myself together and headed for the nearest small town. I planned to sit in a gorgeous cafe and, over a large cafe-au-lait and almond croissants, or maybe a beautifully retro croque monsieur, I would plot a scenic route to a picturesque place where I would spend the evening and night. When I found the centre-ville, I realised that I was not in the mood to enjoy sitting alone in a cafe; I was too heavy of heart. Feeling despondent, I pushed on, giving up the idea of comforting food.

  *

  I have a very useful book: a sort of bible for campervanners. It gives the coordinates and specifications for thousands of aires de camping-car, which are official parkups – often free – where campervanners can get water, empty their waste and stay safely for a night or more. Caravans and tents are not admitted. The book shows colour photos of each aire. At first glance one is confronted by hundreds of pictures of parking bays; some are utilitarian, concrete lots, but others are situated in rural, leafy glades. Sometimes their waste and water facilities are also featured. Photographs of drive-over drains and sewage disposal points are not pretty, and it’s a strangely ugly book, yet over time it becomes vital and comforting. I would not travel in a campervan without it now. Arriving at an aire, I usually feel safe and welcome, wherever I am. France is particularly campervan friendly, boasting aires in most villages, towns, cities and beauty spots. Spain and Portugal are gradually beginning to follow suit.

  *

  After a while, I arrived at an aire that was highly recommended in my book – and I could see why. It overlooked an enormous beautiful lake and occupied a very spacious, sandy compound, with plenty of shade from mature trees. Very aware of being alone, I felt awkward, not carefree like I had been only the day before. I had to take a ticket and pay on entry, but I didn’t understand the system and got muddled. Feeling stupid, I had to ask for help. It was difficult to find the right spot where my solar panel could gain as much sun as possible, so I drove round and round until I settled on a spot, then rejected it, reparked and got overheated and flustered. I had no one to laugh with and felt isolated and sad.

  I had a quick, slightly self-conscious swim in the lake, which was cooling and soothing. Returning to the van, I realised I had mislaid my phone. I searched everywhere, revisited the ticket barrier, panicked and searched the van again, but had no luck. I sat quietly and thought through my plan B for communication. I had brought my old phone with me for just such a situation, but I had no idea where I had hidden it, and I felt it was a bit soon to have suffered such a calamity – out of contact on the same day I had waved off my lovely daughter, who had been such excellent company and a wonderful copilot! The lump in my throat returned and grew until I had to let it go. I sat and cried, then flopped down on the sofa bed and lay there for a while, feeling a bit sorry for myself. My hand slipped over the edge of the upholstery, down the side and – there was my phone, wedged against the cupboard! I cried some more, kissed my phone and laughed. I didn’t know what I was doing; it all seemed so ridiculous, laughable. I ate a picnic supper of bread and cheese, drank a couple of glasses of wine and had an early night. I woke at three, wishing it was already dawn so I could make tea and a fresh start. Three in the morning is a fretful, menacing, awful time, and, to top it off, I was covered in itching bites. Things had to get better.

  *

  Several years ago, I took to my bed and stayed there, alone, for a long, long time, only leaving it when something seemed to be worth the immense effort of getting up – which was seldom. Some days I would walk a neighbour’s dog, and I guess I must have shopped occasionally, though I had little interest in food. It’s a blur, that time. I lost a lot of weight and remember seeing myself in the mirror, noting that I had the slimness of figure – that emaciated look – for which some women strive. Yet it didn’t matter one iota to me what I looked like; I was simply wasting away from a lack of self-care. I was depressed – truly unwell, not just a bit fed up. It hadn’t been a conscious choice to slip out of the flow of life; it was something beyond my control. If I allow myself to enter the memory of that time, I can catch glimpses of the way I felt. It was excruciating. I felt as if I was in the process of dying an extremely slow death. I was fighting an invisible force that was hellbent on crushing me. I had no means of rising up against it, and, eventually, I surrendered and accepted my new reality. The invisible force won.

  After a great deal of rest and isolation from the pressures of life outside my bedroom, something shifted and the malaise began to subside. Thanks to my mother’s telephone support and some amazingly caring friends, who regularly invited me to eat with them even though I was probably not great company, I got stronger and started to look after myself. I got back on my feet, but after so long out of rhythm with the rest of the world, it was hard to get into step. In fact, I realised I would never catch up; I’d never be the same again or get back to where I had been before I fell apart. And where was that? It hadn’t been such a wonderful place, if I was honest, and anyway, it was lost to me then – gone forever.

  And now, ye
ars later, I had taken to the road – alone. I am not adventurous. I didn’t want to go anywhere that involved vaccinations or flying. I am cautious by nature: a fearful rabbit who worries about things that might never happen. Portugal was close enough that I could imagine going there and getting there; plus, I had friends who happened to be staying in the Algarve and would welcome me. But it was also far away enough that I could leave everything behind me at a safe distance. What I was hoping to achieve by this flight from my life was not clear to me. I can see that taking to my bed and taking to the road seem somehow related to each other: each is an escape from normal life. Was this roadtrip all about evasion? And if it was, would it provide only a temporary shelter?

  *

  I have always been fascinated by maps – in fact, I get a little obsessed by them, feeling that as my eyes move over their lines and contours I am somehow preparing to travel their real-life counterparts. The world is so big, and I have only ever visited tiny areas not very far from home. Planning my trip, I would measure the distance from home to the ferry port, then plot how many journeys of this distance would get me to Portugal, then get distracted noticing how many times the British Isles fit into Africa, Russia, America, and so on. It was awesome. It is awesome. I live in a dot in a tiny country in a huge world. Looking at all those places I will never visit, I feel parochial, unworldly, untravelled.

  The GPS my brother had bought me would be an invaluable tool for a single-handed journey, but the idea of following blindly the instructions of a gadget sounded unattractive to a map lover like me. I want to see the overview, get my bearings and create a mental picture before I set off. I have always relied on ‘nat sav’ (natural savvy), and it’s hard to let go of that and trust a voice coming from a tiny box on the dashboard. Some time after Bordeaux, though, I realised I could rely on Tanya to guide me; she stays cool and unruffled, and I am starting to respect her. Sometimes I get quite angry with her, though: for example, when she takes me on twenty kilometres of very narrow track through a deserted pine forest in Landes. Once, she took me on a shortcut over a tiny bridge that was so acutely humpbacked I would still be teetering upon its pointed brow, had I not stopped abruptly and reversed onto the main road (there was nothing coming). We had words then, and I realised, afterwards, that I need to be more assertive, more involved. It’s not enough to hand over all decisions to her. She is very literal about taking the shortest possible route, but I need to take roads that look wide enough for a van. She won’t be offended; she’ll just calmly reconfigure, and we’ll get there in the end.