That ‘Stick your Job up your Arse’ Moment.

‘Would you mind giving me a hand for a minute?’

The voice was cultured. Not young. Female. Three clues, but nothing prepared me for the person behind the voice when I slid open the door of our van. Women in their sixties rarely wear miniskirts. Leather miniskirts. A cropped tee-shirt, no bra, braided purple hair and matching Doc Martin boots. Quite an outfit and I had to admit it looked good on her.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Can’t get the bloody door open and the dog’s inside, dying for a pee.’

We were rough camping on a deserted beach outside Essouria on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. Great waves for surfing, a few trees for shade and safe as houses thanks to the presence of a shack a few hundred yards away, the permanent home of a friendly and hospitable Moroccan fisherman.

I followed her across the beach to where an old converted bus was parked. It was a Dennis bus, dating from the 1950s at a guess, rounded edges, cream paintwork and quite lovely. The driver’s side door only allowed access to the cab and the rear door was obviously the entry to the living quarters.

‘I bumped it yesterday and only realised it wouldn’t open when I got here and came round to let the dog out.’

As if on cue the squashed features of an English bull terrier appeared at the window and demonstrated in no uncertain manner that if we wouldn’t mind opening the door he’d quite like to go out. Please. It was one of those doors that had to be swung open about three inches and then slid along on metal runners. The first part was easy enough, but the sliding aspect was somewhat more awkward. The recent ‘bump’ had bent the frame out of shape, enough to make sliding virtually impossible.

I’m a man. I’m supposed to be able to solve problems like this. Further analysis of the problem would have to be brief as the poor dog had his legs crossed and a desperate expression on his face. I resorted to brute force, heaving on the door with every ounce of strength I possessed. Nothing moved apart from a few ligaments in my back. Okay, I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I took a fresh grip and heaved again. Nothing, then a faint creak escalating into a grinding scream of tortured metal. It may have been the discs of my spine protesting loudly, but something was happening somewhere.

With a dramatic screech the door finally slid open and the released prisoner leapt across my prostrate body and relieved himself, impressively, against the wheel arch.

I went back to our own van, collected some tools and repaired the slide mechanism. It didn’t look pretty, but it worked. By now my wife and the dog’s owner were deep in conversation.

‘I’m Lois,’ the woman said, extending a slender hand. ‘Thank you so much. Ben’s very grateful too.’ Ben was showing his appreciation by grabbing my shoe in his jaws and attempting to remove both shoe and the foot it enclosed, but I’m a dog fan so I wasn’t unduly put out.

An hour later we were firm friends. Ben was a real character, but it was his owner who fascinated us. Lois was 66, had been on the road for nine years and used to be a futures trader.

‘Husband fucked off, house mortgaged to the hilt, so I thought, stuff it, why bother any more? That was nine years ago. I handed the house keys over to the building society, told my line manager to stick his job up his arse and went on the road. Been travelling ever since. Sorry about bothering you, but I saw the English number plate and thought you’d be a better bet than the local feller.’

‘No problem. Glad I could help.’

‘I try to manage on my own when I can. Most blokes assume I’m looking for a shag when they see I’m on my own. That’s why I got Ben.’

Ben was busy digging a hole deep enough to hide him from view and didn’t look particularly threatening. I said as much.

‘Nah, he’s a real softie, but they don’t know that. Kept me out of trouble once or twice. In Turkey he earned his keep a couple of times.’

‘Where’ve you been to?’ I asked. That old stand-by of strangers meeting on the road. Lois reeled off a list of every country I’d ever heard of and a fair few I hadn’t.

‘Wow!’

‘Well, I’ve been on the road, full-time, non stop, for nine years. Work a week or so, now and again. Bar work, waitressing, a bit of translating if I can get it. I speak a few languages so that helps.’

By now I was feeling fairly inadequate. Not something I enjoy.

‘Where’ve you liked best? My wife enquired. Lois pursed her lips. ‘Albania was good. India, Vietnam, Nepal – all the usual hippy trail places when I was just backpacking. I got the bus five years ago. It’s home now. I’m hoping to get to the Cape. I got as far as Timbuktou last year, but had malaria pretty badly and had to head back again.’

Timbuktou!

The name of a place that’s fascinated me since childhood. This woman, older than me and on her own had not only been there she was intending to drive the length of the African continent and reach Cape Town at the far tip of South Africa.

I’ve thought about Lois quite a lot recently. When anyone wonders why we like travelling, I think of Lois. I’ve met many travellers on the road. They’re happy people. Content to manage without what most other people regard as essential.

Once, to an outsider, Lois had it all. The big house in Hampshire. A well paid, if stressful job. Husband, Mercedes, house, job; all gone now. She has a bus for a home, a fool of a dog as a companion and very little else. I’ve never met a more contented person.

Did she ever reach the Cape? It would be a daunting trip for a person half her age. I don’t know. We never saw her again. I hope so. I hope she’s still rolling along. Happy. Content. The purple hair ensuring she’ll be noticed wherever she goes.

We’re off to Timbuktou now. We tried two years ago and a sand storm obliterated any trace of what passes for a road through the Sahara. This time, we’ll get there. Carry on, down to the Cape? I hadn’t thought of it. Until I met Lois.

I’m not travelling alone. My wife has boundless resources of common sense, tolerance and determination. Married to a wastrel like me, she’s needed all these qualities. Putting her in danger will never be part of the plan. Pressing on through war-torn Central Africa where famine and disease is part of the way of life is a step too far. On my own, not such a problem, but even then I’d think very carefully about the risks involved.

For Lois: a seven-stone woman in her mid-sixties, it was a quest. One of many she’d faced while living life to the full.

Travel safely, Lois and may all your dreams come true. I’ll never forget you.