Me and my camper

About twenty years ago, after a long-term relationship break-up I decided to buy a camper van and bum around. The action wasn’t quite as bohemian and creative as at sounds; I literally didn’t know what to do with myself. There was a permanent knot in my chest, I’d lost all energy (and a noticeable amount of weight) and felt a sense of purposelessness that I had never felt before. I guess it was depression or perhaps grieving - but either way there seemed to be nothing to lose. It was an opportunity, a seed of an idea that I’d had since childhood, a Famous Five adventure or a chance to explore these islands a bit more - a sort of pilgrimage by petrol. Whilst I would like to pretend that this fantasy came from some deeply spiritual place, I realised on showing the newly purchased vehicle to a friend of mine that my reasons were disappointingly shallow; ‘Oh! Every little girl’s dream’ she said - ‘the perfect Wendy house!’ An unarguable observation.

I was lucky; my ex and I had a property to sell and the equity from that gave me enough money to buy a knackered old camper van and a laptop. The laptop mattered because I’d had an idea that I wanted to be able to write music, document a few thoughts (sadly now lost) and it seemed that the slower pace of life would allow me some breathing space. I was also fortunate in that I had plenty of friends and family in various locations, which meant that there were often hot showers or warm beds or colour televisions not too far away. (I did have a tiny portable black and white telly which was surprisingly clear, but a large colour screen was a happy luxury). My travels were a combination of house-sitting, campsites, rehearsing at friends houses and gate-crashing other people’s holidays. I didn’t go beyond these islands (except for a single flight abroad) and set no goals. It was fantastically liberating.

‘Yes but what did you actually do?’ I hear you ask. A perfectly valid question, given the pace at which our lives have speeded up (apart from obvious recent events) over the last couple of decades. Prior to actually embarking on this journey I would have envisioned myself either entering some kind of prayerful, meditative state, rather like the late Sister Wendy - the visionary Carmelite nun, contemplating art and the meaning of life, or being bored shitless and achingly lonely. In fact I wasn’t lonely or bored - on my own - yes, but not with that sense of bleak pointlessness that has probably affected all of us from time to time. When staying in campsites, the pace of life was naturally slow but evolved into a pattern; a morning walk/explore, the afternoon composing at the laptop, cooking, reading and relaxing in the evening, accompanied by the radio or the black and white telly and always early to bed. There was something about not having deadlines, noticing the seasons, and being closer to nature that made me wake naturally earlier and retire to bed at night sooner than I had before. The van was cosy and comforting, the experience felt like a retreat rather than enforced isolation and there was always the option of moving on if I got tired of my own ponderings or surroundings. There were times when I felt vulnerable; I was foolish enough once or twice to park at night on public roads and some pissed students thought it would be amusing to rock my van from side to side. Needless to say those sleepless, frightening experiences were important lessons about avoiding unnecessary risk and I learned not to be so stupid again.

Once word was out about my little adventure, house sitting invitations followed. This meant not sleeping in the van as much as originally planned, but still using it every day as my travelling home and keeper of important possessions. Sometimes I ponced about writing not very good pieces of music, other times I dropped in on friends and we would eat, drink and put the world to rights. Quite often I would stay with family and pick up mail, or dog sit, or set up my marimba and do some practice. Financially I reckoned I could live for about a year without working, though there were a couple of freelance bits of coaching and gigs which provided some useful pocket money.

Risk aside, the adventure of it all was freeing and creative; a genuine lesson in living with less. Apart from providing the basics, I didn’t care about possessions, and couldn’t think of anything materially I actually wanted at all. I felt physically different, the knot in my chest gradually subsided, I noticed the awe-inspiring beauty in nature, literally saw things more clearly and felt an empathy towards humans and animals that was new and at times startling. It was sensitivity in the truest sense of the word - as if my senses had been re-ignited - and the sentiment ‘life is beautiful’ had never felt truer.

So if all this was so revelatory, meaningful and healing why did I stop? Why put an end to something that had shown how life could be simultaneously enlightening and unmaterialistic? In the end, the desire to come back to the real world happened quite naturally and the reasons for taking the journey in the first place quietly slipped away. I had healed, was ready for a new pace of life and was slightly bored of my own company. Money was running out and a different, more conventional routine was beckoning. I had joined a folk band, been offered some teaching and quite fancied the idea of having a fixed dwelling instead of my meandering, nomadic lifestyle. In short, I needed to get back on the conveyor belt - albeit a more contemplative slower-running one.

The pandemic has found my thoughts drifting back to this time more frequently - probably because during lockdowns we were less distracted and less stimulated. What did I learn from this experience? Undoubtedly it has stayed with me; I’m not particularly interested in acquiring ‘stuff’ and am difficult to buy presents for (see my ‘Handel and Hendrix’ post). I don’t like working frantically, feel lost if I’m not forming a creative idea and definitely empathise more. Would these characteristics have arrived anyway? Does middle age mellow you, and does having children make you automatically empathetic? Impossible to say of course but I do still love walking (as my friends and family will testify), still need more thinking time, contemplate art, nature and music more deeply and am always questioning motivation.

Life has moved on; shortly after my year-long journey I met Big C and we worked a bit more normally, bought a property and had our boys. The kids are vaguely aware of this phase of my life and although I haven’t mentioned it much (it would be accompanied by much yawning and eye rolling) I would hope they eventually learn some of those deeper lessons by osmosis; the pace of life doesn’t need to be so crazy after all.

Uplifting music of the day: - Trilok Gurtu - ‘Maya’ from the album ‘The Beat of Love.’ A really energetic track from this brilliant percussionist. I listened to this a lot in the van.

Contemplative music of the day: e2K - ‘The Water is Wide.’ A lovely version of this folk tune put together by seven musicians of a Celtic/Afro mix. It’s refreshing on the pallette and reminds me of being on the road.