When I was younger, I was plagued by a need for routine. Monday to Friday was for working, Saturday was the day to clean and cook and Sundays were reserved for family. I don't remember this routine ever being a conscious decision, I think it may have been borne from a generational force of habit. But whatever it was, I did it for years. I raised my children on it and progressed my career too.
Then social media showed me that everyone else was having more fun than me and so, I downed my feather duster and rebelled. No longer persecuted by the voices of domesticating devils trespassing my head, I gloriously discovered freedom.
At first it was hotel and B&B breaks, the occasional yurt if I was feeling outdoorsy. I visited places I'd never heard of, climbed new hills, explored new terrain. Then came 2020, and my fun, like everyone else's, was stolen.
'How about a caravan?' asked my husband as the restrictions eased.
The horse drawn #caravan was first used in the 15th century to transport goods and didn't take on the recognisable form of mobile home until the 19th century. Although the first car-pulled commercial touring caravan came on to the market in 1919, it was only around the 1930's that caravans began to be deemed more affordable for the middle classes.
It is safe to say that caravanning has evolved from these humble origins and has now grown into a popular holiday choice, but still, I was sceptical. However, with few other options I agreed.
I was wrong to be dubious.
I love how we leave behind the chaos of everyday life, travelling roads fastened with new sights. Everything we need for the next day or two is either in our car or the box attached, and I am liberated. As my husband and I travel, we both begin to breathe more easily, taking in deep breaths of calming air no matter what the weather.
Even with a caravan in tow, our solid car can climb mountains, and it does. We traverse Snowdonia, Wales’ best-known slice of nature. Through breaks in the bleak ranges, we catch sight of jagged ridges and marvel at shorn cliff faces plunging into yawning lakes below. Apparently, the Eastern approach is a popular route with film makers and it’s easy to see why. The scenes are drama at its finest. On a clear day the views stretch to Ireland, on a gloomy day, you ride above the clouds.
At sea level we travel salty bays. As we pass houses painted pastel shades of blue and pink, the delicious scent of wisteria growing round quaint doorways invades our car. Leaving the cheery gardens behind, we scurry through long dark tunnels carved through rocks, squinting as we emerge the other side in bright light.
On other trips, we scamper forests of pines. Our eyes feasting on lines of chocolate trunks, crowded by perfumed vibrant bluebell. Our nostrils gorge the tangy aromas of wild garlic.
We follow tumbling rivers playfully tossing kayak enthusiasts from one bank to the other. Spy crumbling castles that we never knew existed and scoot through quaint villages seeped in history.
In our van we say a temporary goodbye to the world of work, responsibility, and teenage turmoil (yes, our caravan is a teenage free zone). We leave behind the chaos and ascend towards calmer weekends.
Once our destination is reached, and the van is steadied, outdoor-cooked food spices our nostrils, and aromatic peace travels the breeze. I sit content in slithers of sunlight, wrapped in a cashmere blanket to protect me from the English weather. My husband strolls the pitches, a ritual he always plays out upon arriving a site, before joining me to partake in a glass of wine.
Dinner is a whole evening affair with backgammon played between courses. If the English weather permits, my husband grills fresh vegetables and fish on an outdoor cooker, whilst I prepare a herby crumb to paste across the flesh. Our view, different every time, never disappoints. The sea with its seamless horizon is without doubt, my favourite. But the sun sinking on any setting is always a pleasure to watch.
The late evening with its darkness, escorts a quietness across caravan sites, only broken by the occasional bark of a dog or hoot of a night owl. Star-lit skies, easily viewed through roof lights, pave the way for dreams as we curl up together with the unspoken promise of tomorrow.
I soon learn that early morning coffee, whether had inside, or outside of our big tin box, is the best way to start my day. Even in this row of man-made white containers sheltering sleeping occupants, I feel part of the landscape. In spring, nature's surround sound system plays the dawn chorus and soothes my mind. The air, ripe with dewy petrichor, feeds my soul. Whilst I sip, early morning insects get busy, pollinating the flowers of the knotted Hawthorn hedges. The bloom, which is a sign of spring turning into summer, will develop into robin-red haws. The fruit rich in antioxidants, will become a good source of food for migrating birds and small mammals.
Autumnal mornings are different. With later sunrises, I watch the flowers opening and stretching to greet the first rays of yellow sun. I admire mystical fogs which hover inches above the dewy ground before vanishing into the air. Skies magically change within minutes, turning from clementine hues splashed with golden clouds, into dragon fire embers.
But no matter what the time of year, by 8:30 in the morning, caravan sites are humming with hushed activity. #Caravanners and #Motorhomers swarm the shower blocks and water filling stations. Men, immune to the bites of chilly weather, parade in shorts and t-shirts, children loiter on caravan steps, waiting impatiently for parents to signal that it's no longer too early to scooter or cycle laps around the site. The sounds of awning zips and trundling water butt wheels chase away early morning serenity, and another day of exploration begins.
And I wouldn't change a thing. #Caravanning, I have learned, is so much more than a holiday or weekend break. It is shelter whilst you regenerate, privacy whilst you carve your spirit and quite possibly, the best window through which to view the world.
Are you undecided about whether to try caravanning or motor-homing? What are your concerns? Is it something you fancy doing alone? Or with friends?
Read more Hell of a Midlife articles.
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