Travelling. The good, the bad and the ugly.

I’ve been a restless soul for quite a while. I like travel, seeing different places, meeting strangers, finding out about countries at close quarters. I love history, tradition, architecture, food and wine – all the myriad aspects of life as lived by others.

I’m very lucky. My wife has put up with my nonsense for more years than either of us can believe and she’s also possessed of a rambling nature. We lived abroad for twenty years, renovating ruined houses in France, Spain and North Africa. ‘Doing-up’ houses in order to sell them and buy another ruin allowed us to keep the wolf from the door, but by its very nature was hard work and tied us down for the duration of the project. Nowadays we wander at will, a camper van our home, wake to a different view every morning or stay put for a while and savour a new region and all it has to offer.

I’d like to bore you now by talking about camper vans. We’ve come across all sorts on our travels. I’ll never forget watching 89 old buses now converted to ‘campers/mobile homes’ boarding the ferry from North to South Island in New Zealand. Yes, I did count them – nothing else to do while we waited our turn in our farty little VW camper. Six weeks in that little VW, complete with wacky cartoons all over it, was a fantastic experience. We went everywhere, both islands, moving on when the mood took us and it was this trip that re-energised our wanderlust. Waking on the shore of the Blue Lake or in a weird campsite at Cape Kidnapping made us realise what we were missing.

That Cape Kidnapping campsite was a real treat. One of the few times we used proper campsites as ‘rough camping’ is both safe and plentiful in New Zealand, we rolled up at the site as darkness was about to fall. ‘How much for a night?’ I asked the 135-year-old man sitting on a breeze block outside the entrance. (I’m being generous with his age, he looked a lot older than 135!)

‘Five bucks.’

I can’t remember the exact equivalent in English pounds of five bucks, but trust me, five dollars is pretty cheap.

‘Where do we park?’

He waved a talon airily. ‘Where you want. Showers are hot, but watch out for the dog, he’s a bastard.’

We drove in, didn’t see the dog – never did see the dog – and parked up. There were a few of the mobile homes we’d seen many times before: old caravans, and I mean really old, which had been extended, usually a brick or block room or rooms added and curtains and all the trimmings included. Not fancy and no longer ‘mobile’ but very much a ‘home.’ At the far end of the field, right by the seashore, were a group of those buses we’d seen all over New Zealand. Old single-decker buses with the seats ripped out and equipped as a home, usually a luxurious although far from fancy home for a couple.

Our van in NZ  with one of its big brothers alongside.

We parked up and I toddled off for a shower, eyes peeled for the ‘bastard’ dog. The shower was excellent, but on my return there’d been a development. Shortly after I left a huge man, covered in tattoos and wielding a bloodstained knife had turned up. When my wife recovered from a heart attack, it transpired the villainous man with the knife had broken off from gutting fish to ask if we’d like a beer and to share their barbecue meal.

They were fishermen, lived there ten months of the year, and were fantastic hosts. Fish, straight from the sea, rice, potatoes, loads of ‘veggies’ and indecent amounts of cold beer were on offer. Typical of the hospitable nature of the New Zealand people.

Back in Europe our van, our home from home, is a van-based camper van with scarcely any mod cons. Deliberately so. We’ve come across all types on our travels. The converted buses, the American motor-homes with wind-out extensions and the plush purpose-built vans with satellite tv, awnings and every conceivable luxury. Yes, they’re wonderfully comfortable, equipped with onboard showers, full ovens, domestic size fridge freezers and everything else that replicates what’s available in a house.

Our van, in the back garden. Oh, okay, Blenheim Palace.

The problem is, these luxury vans, they’re big. Seriously big in most cases. Of course, in an ideal world, we’d like access to comfort. Even a bit of luxury wouldn’t go amiss. So, why pick a small van without any of these amenities? In a word, access. Life on the road in New Zealand, sleeping by the ocean, driving through the mountains or exploring towns and villages was a doddle in a small van. Back in Europe we’ve driven along winding lanes in Cornwall, parked up in the centre of Andalusian white villages and generally been wherever the mood takes us. In a big van, we’d have to park a mile away, tow a small car or carry a motorbike to go where we’ve been. Nowhere near as convenient.

We’re not exactly young, but we can rough it when we have to and the compensations far outweigh the inconvenience. Eastern Europe, North Africa, the Alps, we’ve been there, seen so much. So much more to do, so much more to see. It won’t suit everyone, life on the road, but we’re never happier than when we’re wandering. We don’t check emails very often, don’t ring ‘home’ either. This is ‘home’ and we’re loving it.