1.4 Camelot’s retreat and Battle Preparation

A wise man once said “Survival is key if you want to live”

Half term has come and is now parting like an overly fragrant femme fatale on a busy high street. The whiff wafting, departing into a sea of heads and handbags.

A whole week of bedded bliss with the Mrs. Log fires. En-suite to hand. A shower at any time of the day. Hot food. Beer. Cheese. This errant knight’s very own Camelot.

Luxury. All now to be dropped at the yelling alarm of tomorrow morn.

I have not wasted the week though. I’ve invested against a tinny, chilly future. There’s still work to be done, but I feel the survival basics (plural) have been covered: warmth (singular).

This week I have mostly been reading step-by-step guides, looking at pretty pictures on Pinterest and how-to’s on YouTube. They recommend insulation, electric blankets; goose down; can openers. Even special pee bottles with handy handles and a wider entry point than the one I’ve been using.

I’ve followed two of these suggestions thus far.

Later tonight I will be decanting 4 litres of Lenor Comfort Conditioner and reassigning the bottle to assist with night time procedures. No longer will I have to kneel in the middle of the night, as if to Mecca, while blearily concentrating on precision gunnery. I shall pee with abandon my friends. Abandon. No more dream time risk assessments for me.

If you read my last entry you will know that my journey into the challenge of living in a van and teaching at a coastal school of beatitude has now been extended. It’s like that New Zealander’s version of The Hobbit. Three films of endlessness. I hope my adventure will be rather more joysome than the aforementioned bum-numbing dribble.

So, to encourage myself I break it down. 23 nights. Twenty-three nights in the van till Christmas. With this in mind I have rolled out the thermal barrier and now the van’s innards look like the belly of Oz’s very own Tin man. There’s work still to be done, but stage one of the dream is complete.

If you’re reading this hoping for some advice, I used the following things:

  • A claw hammer
  • A screwdriver
  • A paint scraper as a handy lever
  • Spray glue
  • One onion

Once you begin, the use for all these tools will become obvious. The onion is to dispel the smell of glue. That glue smell is like the smell of Duncan’s blood after Macbeth murdered him in his bedchamber. All the happy couple needed was a skinned and cleaved onion. No need for all the perfumes in Arabia at all. So much cheaper. A happy conscience.

What’s also essential is that your work and progress is appreciated. Make sure a huff or two is heard when family members pass by. Coffee will come a-pouring. My brother-in-law played a vital role this week. He too is a van owner so we talked shop. He showed me his and I showed him mine. His is bigger and red.

Adopt a knowledgeable position and cross your arms, making sure to spread your legs while pointing out the obvious. In-laws will approve of your craft without hesitation.

It’s been a week of sacrifice. The weather has been amazing and enjoyment of this has been short-lived, but the endgame and its benefits has kept me going. I’ve even given the look some necessary thought and bought a beanie hat. My main issue has been fringe in or out.

I’ve gone with out.

Items may convey a sense of the beatific in contrast with the reality

1.0 An Errant Knight

Four months of teaching and living in a van.

And here I am.   Teaching again.  Four weeks in to living in a van away from home, a county’s distance, now north instead of south, jammed before creamed rather than creamed before jammed – though I’ve never swayed from the true and proper method – I am a wandering foreigner “Doomed for a certain time to” park up at night in secret and precious locations held as borrowed treasures and known only to those hardy residents with nowhere to shelter but their very own trusty, often rusty, van.

Mine’s a T4.  The last of the line of T4s before T5 swept the floor with them.  It is white.  A good service record.  A good runner.  Diesel.  Turbo.  2.5, and home for three nights a week.

I am a 40-year-old homeowner, married, childless (currently), dogless (currently); aspirations (many), geek (certified), four-eyed and fore-armed – yes I have two sleeping bags and two duvets fellow travellers.

The van is currently devoid of insulation.  Cloudy nights are my friends.

The back story:  The school was desperate.  On their knees, they begged me to return (this is how I tell it and may only reflect truth).  I mulled, sighed, considered and agreed.

“I’ll do a term”, quoth I.  “That’ll be ample time to find the one of whom the prophecies speak.”

And here I am. Chronicling the experience of living in a small van for three nights a week, parking up here, there and everywhere, travelling for work, negotiating showers, devouring sandwiches for tea and with time on my hand.

“How has it been?” say you.  “What have you learnt; what insights do you have for us?”

“Well,” I return.  “September has been a month of:

  • Establishing routines.
  • Finding safe harbours, preferably darkened.
  • Hiding from nosy dog-walkers and halogen torches brighter than the sun.
  • Cold sandwiches for tea time.  I’ve said this twice now.
  • Identifying the need to insulate the van.  Soon.
  • Foiling possible attempted robberies of garden sheds.
  • Scrolling through the efforts of Pinterest aficionados.
  • Disturbing a chap mid wild-poo on church grounds.
  • Catching up on my sunsets.
  • Jealously eyeing other van-dwellers with hot dinners.
  • Downloading items from Netflix on Sunday night in preparation for a dull evening.
  • Planning bed modifications, scrapping, re-planning and returning to ogling Pinterest.
  • Talking with a man on a faith walk along the coast with his unfriendly dog and nothing more than a tent, a Bible and the dog’s lead.  I’m sceptical of his credentials.

“And,” you ask, “do you long for four walls and a 16th century roof over your head?”

(We have a 16th century cottage, available for rent on Airbnb don’t you know)

“Well.  I’m coping.  Even though it gets cold.  Even though unseen footsteps draw me to twitch at the curtains.  It’s the 1st of October.  We’ll see.  December is only a sharp wind away.”

Items may convey a sense of the beatific in contrast with the reality

Photo by Nubia Navarro (nubikini) on Pexels.com