On the road

Driving

Today was a travelling day. We had intended to leave early and drive through to Coimbra, but after the last night festivities, we had stayed around chatting, and had to steel ourselves not to say, “...well, maybe just another night...”.
Jamey looked at the Merc with Mark, and discovered the radiator is shot to pieces. The cooling fins have fallen off like the needles of a christmas tree. Coimbra, apparently, is the place to get it fixed. In the meantime we have to ensure the temperature of the engine doesn't reach 100 – if it does the engine could auto destruct. We decide to chance it and hook up, driving off after emotional goodbyes, and I film the hair raising journey down the mountain, watching the scenery change constantly as the light catches and casts shadows on its slopes. I look at the track leading to Priedamo carved into the mountainside from the other side of the range, amazed by the fact we have just driven across it, saddened by the fact we might never go back...


We are driving West, towards Orviedo, then south to Leon. We have to climb 1500metres over 40 kilometers, on a constant incline. The temperature gauge crawls towards 100 as we strain up, sometimes at less that 20 m.p.h. It takes over an hour to travel the distance, but eventually we get there, passing through tunnels bored into the rock, to arrive at the peak. We drive along the plateau of Spain, looking out at the vast flatness of it, such a contrast to where we have been. As night slowly falls, we watch the sunset in the east, the clouds beautiful red and black silhouettes against the orange sky. Then the darkness. We haven't organised a campsite, this is not the part of Spain that is used to tourists, and very few of them exist, non are marked or mentioned in our book. There is no way of knowing where to stop. There are no stopping places to set up in, if there are we can't see them. Eventually, just before Zamora, we stop in a petrol station and ask (in spanish) if we can park our caravan in the space behind the building. “nostromos vamos en manyana...' I say off my own back, and the man assents enthusiastically. We plot up behind the petrol station, make dinner, play cards, read stories and wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

High Plains Drifters



The station we stopped at in the pitch darkness turns out to be beautiful in the morning. Like midwest America – vast, flat and dusty, men with rifles make their way into the fields, mad dogs bark wildly, echoing over the plains. The sun is shining, and all around is nothingness, as far as the eye can see.


We plan to stop off at Salamanca, then cross the border to Portugal through the Beira Alta, round the national park near Guarda, and then through to Coimbra. It looks like a days driving. We start off early, high spirits, music playing, waving to the petrol attendant as we go. We drive and drive, stopping for lunch at a service station. Fish Soup gourmet style, filled with half crabs, prawns, clams, a treasure trove of seafood in a bowl. Arriving at Salamanca, we manage to smash the extendable wing mirror we bought before we left. Parking with caravan attached is problematic, reversing in particular is a nightmare. There seems no logic to it, turn one way and the van turns another, turn the other and... who knows where it will go. We haven't worked out the pattern yet (surely there must be one?) . I persuade Mark we'll deal with the breakage later, and we head into Salamanca for lunch and a snoop.

It is as beautiful as the guide book tells us. Amazingly well preserved and complete. The girls take pictures and film each other under the hugh swaying cypress trees.

I manage to get sucked into a tourist shop and buy the girls flamenco dresses for Christmas. Mark buys 'hornazos', a pie to beat all pies, thick of crust and containing enough meat to feed a family of four for a week. Delicious.

We head off, later than expected, and drive and drive, past the border, into the strange alien landscape of Portugal. Virtual scrubland, dead trees everywhere – they have had no rain this year, and the effect is devastating and depressing to see.

The land is covered by giant boulders, like a giant's playground, and we swing up towards Guarda, the highest city in Europe. It is huge. The road swings away and circumnavigates the mountain, and down we go. Again we notice the dark approaching, and panic slightly, after last night we had vowed to stop before dark. It is so stressful, the roads curve, there is nowhere to stop, if you pull off the main drag it might be impossible to turn with the caravan . We have really sketch directions to our next stopover, and arriving in the dark could be problematic, particularly as the maps we have are far from accurate and the signs in Portugal are pretty random. The darker it gets, the sparser the signposts become. None of the places they point to appear on my map, and the places we are looking for are not on the signposts. We drive on and on, hoping Serpins will appear in neon lights and it will all be over. After 2 hours driving in the dark, and various attempts to ask the locals directions in Portugese, and a couple of calls to Hugh, our host, we arrive up the track, mad dog barking, and camp up on his land. The relief of knowing we can stay here for a few days is immense. The kids will be able to catch up on some work, and we can complete some running repairs on the van and the car.

And relax...



Coimbra

How can two countries, sharing the same peninsula be so different.


We wake the next morning to clear blue skies and frost on the ground. As the sun rises the earth steams. We get up and walk around. Hugh will not be back until lunch so we have time to explore. It is not remote in the same way as Priedamo, where could be, but we are in woodland, in a valley. The land is terraced, and sectioned by clumps of olive, cork oak and bamboo. There are caravans and converted busses dotted around the various crumbling buildings.


Old bikes, a London taxi, sofas and other dusty furniture sit like relics around the place. A reminder of times past. Mark wants to go, I want to stay. The thought of spending another day on the road is abhorrent. This place is beautiful, and the children have already found toy tractors and go carts, Silvie is rushing down the rutted track at 20 miles an hour screaming with laughter and Frida has started work on a 'mechanic's workshop' in the bamboo clumps. The sun is shining....

Mark is persuaded, and Jay arrives, Hugh's son, ginger and charming and cool. He talks about his plans as if he knows us, drops some stuff off, tells us where to get provisions, and leaves.

The kids are persuaded to take time out from their perpetual play time and write in their diaries. I snoop around, looking in the windows of the vans and busses. There is a Safari, bigger than ours, all decked out on the inside with wood panels, 'EXODUS' in the front window. A bit of traveller history.

Hugh arrives smiling. Before long Mark and he are engrossed in car talk. He isn't overly concerned about the radiator.

A visit to Lousa, the nearest town follows. It is so different to Spain. The houses hug the streets, the town is beautifully clean and well kept. Children are playing in the school, going about their business in a calm relaxed manner. An old woman comes up to the children, concerned that they are cold (they are wearing tee shirts) and we laugh at the notion that it could be considered cold by anyone (It is 18 degrees). We shop, go back, and after the children are in bed, go to meet Hugh properly. Ex of Archaos, inventor and rider of the stilt bike (google it), he tells us of the fate of our old blue volvo, sold to the group in the nineties. Covered in shells and used in the act - well maybe. We shared stories of Royal Delux and La Fura Del Baus, and chatted the night away.


We visit Coimibigra, a ruined Roman town 30 minutes drive from the homestead. Frida and Silvie disappear, checking out the jacuzzi, baths, fountains and mozaics, asking question after question, reading the information on the signposts. We wander and wonder, considering wether to slip one of the Roman column bricks that are just lying around into out bags. We find one with a dogs paw print impressed into it. What a lovely sight. The girls are entranced with the idea of the Roman dog. But no. We leave it where it's been for the last 2,000 years.

After another evening at Donkey Island, we prepare to move on the Steve and Sabine's place near Odemira. It will be two days drive, and we organise our stop off point. We will definately stop before dark. We plan to stay in the car park at Os Alamendres, a stone circle near Evora, and leave early (midday).


Night driving.

It gets dark before we arrive at our destination. We stop in a layby, but it is too close to the road, and the road is busy, so we drive into Montemor-o-Novo, and stop in the car park. It has a toilet, and is next to the municipal park. I take the girls to run around while Mark rearranges the caravan for sleeping mode. They have run ahead, and suddenly reappear in a state of excitement. There is a small amphitheatre with a dancing fountain, light show and piped music tucked round the corner. They dance and run, avoiding the spray. We go back to get Mark, who is stressed and miserable, and worried about sleeping in the car park - even though Hugh has told us the Portuguese aren't bothered. I tell him to bring a bottle of wine, then cover his eyes as the girls take one hand each and lead him to the spot. We sit and chill as they use up all the energy they have stored over the day, then have the noisiest night's sleep so far.


The next morning, we decamp early and make our way to Os Alemendres, the stone circle we had planned to camp next to. First we have coffee at the local cafe, then while wondering whether the car and caravan will make it up the track, watch two coach loads of school children dissappear up it. The town is desserted and the kids smash the ice covering the puddles that are still in the shade, whilst in the sun it is gloriously warm. We arrive to find the school children swarming like ants over the stones, scuffing about in the dust, climbing on them, kicking them absent mindedly whilst checking out their phones. It was not the experience we were hoping for. I cook eggy bread and egg on toast for Mark in the caravan, and they eventually leave. So we hang around for a couple of hours, with the place virtually our own. Taking pictures, shooting film, dressing the girls up in their flamenco dresses for the beauty of it, watching the sheep run past bells tinkling,





Afterwards, we moved on again towards Odemira where we will be staying with Steve, Sabine and their three kids for a week or so.

Happy Christmas, everyone!

Asturian Enders

Welcome to Priedamo, land of the free.


















Meet JAMEY, 31. Owner of a County 4X4, six wheel, raised wheel based ford transit, trail bike, joint owner of a 17ft german caravan and the green house in Priedamo in the Asturian mountains. Nerves of steel and a taste for adventure. The Dude. He is married to



















JANE, 25. Loveliness personified, dreamer, builder and dead ringer for Ottilie. They are sharing the villiage with




















NIC, erudite, death defying owner of the blue house, and



















CHRIS, 47, dog lover and owner of FLUKE II.


As Jamey would put it, "it's all a bit sketchy up here", the days go by, the evenings are filled with wine and smoke and words, and it feels almost impossible to get anything done. So we do very little, the hangovers are blown away on the first venture out of the caravan in the morning, leaving a pleasant vague feeling which lasts until the next session.

The village is one of the highest in the range. From here you can climb to the nearest peak and see the sea to the north, the Picos de Europa to the south, and everything in between. The road is cut into a mountain with an almost vertical drop -certain death is all I can think of as we drive up it, and we have driven up and down it on numerous occasions now (Mark focussed, the children discussing matter of factly, the possibilities of survival if we go over the edge, and me with a frozen smile on my face.) It is literally at the end of the road, and visited only by the owner of the cows and its inhabitants. The village itself is a small clutch of farm buildings and houses in various stages of dilapidation perched on the top of the Asturian Mountains. It is the most remote spot we have ever visited, it is idylic and beautiful and peaceful. The only sounds the bells round the cow and sheep's necks, and the screech of the occasional vultures. The constant, muffled chiming is calming and deters us from listening to music or making noise.

During our stay - we have been here for over a week, we have climbed the nearest peak, visited the nearby beach (about 30 minutes drive from Priedamo) and helped around the place. But mainly we have been chilling out and listening to stories - Nic's near death experience with an aeroplane propellar, Chris' shaggy dog stories, and J&J's travelling tales, gleening information about the local area and places to visit en route. Generally experiencing life on the commune. The girls are in heaven. Up and out every morning, skipping up and down the mountain roads, walking far away from the house up the mountain sides. One day they built a den and we didn't see them all day, they were so wrapped up in their own world. They put on a firework display for the whole villiage (all six of us) and we spend the night round the fire eating sausages and bread, chatting the night away.



























They write in their diaries about their adventures, and learn about the mountain wildlife, the geography of the area, how the clouds sit in the valley for days on end, and learn a smattering of Spanish, which will serve them well on our way back up north after visiting Morocco.



Jamey takes Silvie on two motorbike rides up the winding mountain roads, off roading down the slopes, and she is totally delighted and excitied. He shows her how to measure the electric current in the caravan, and how it changes when extra batteries are added, and learns by asking so many questions that she makes everyone feel dizzy. Frida and Jane plant trees and plants that she has brought from England, and shows them the best local spots to play. Chris will chat to them all day, letting them help to make the fire and look after Fluke. We don't want to go, but we will have to push on. We cook dinner and chocolate cake on our last evening, and everyone eats, chats and drinks, and we discover they know the man at our next stop in Portugal. We baulk at the coincidence.

It is heartening to think of the serrendipity that bought us to this beautiful spot. A chance exchange with Jamey in the queue to embark on the ferry – admiring each other's rigs, and then again as we prepared to get off the boat. It seems they were also booked in for the ferry on Wednesday, but car trouble prevented them catching it. They describe the life, the area, the plans and fill my head with ideas. It would be tempting just to stay here. I can see it in my mind's eye, just dropping out and taking a whole new path in life. It is so beautiful.

First days

We have been in Spain for two days. Off the ferry at Santander after meeting Jane and Jamey who have invited us to stay at Priedamo, their villiage in the mountains. We have vague directions on a post it note stuck roughly to the map book. Santander is straight forward enough to negotiate, and we drive on to Santilliana, supposedly the prettiest villiage in Spain and follow the parking signs to our first mistake. We take the wrong street and cannot turn the caravan to get out. Mark reverses with me shouting instructions from the rear, and we manage, somehow to crash into the sign and smash our rear indicator into the bargain. I wait for an irrate Spaniard to come out screaming, and panic at my lack of language, but nothing happens. Noone seems remotely bothered and we eventually reverse out to the car park opposite, look at the town and get some lunch, using every opportunity to practice our Spanish.

Onwards to El Rosal, a beachside campsite on the coast where we are planning to spend our first night. We arrive to find it shut, despite the Rough Guide's statement that it is open all year. It is adjacent to a massive open space, surrounded by sand dunes and woodland, and we decide to camp here, next to the beach. The kids are delighted and strip off to their knickers immediately. They spend an hour or so splashing in the Atlantic, making channels to capture the waves, and generally being careless to the fact that it's only a few degrees warmer than England. Behind us the sun sets on the Picos de Europa, snow capped, golden and stately in the distance.

We are woken in the night by some local youths, doing handbrake turns next to the caravan, it sounds as if they are right upon us, then they drive away. In the morning we see the tracks they have left, barely five feet from the caravan. We are told by a fellow camper that this practise is fairly common, and a way for locals to discourage people sleeping overnight in public areas. Fair play to them, I suppose. Friday turns out to be beautiful. The girls go off to play in the little woods, making a splendid bed of moss and campfire while Mark and I superglue the indicator casing back together. Our main concern is getting stopped by the Guarda, we have been told so many stories about being fined on the spot for any infringement. It is unlikely we will be overtaking anyone in our old banger.

The town has a causeway over the estuary, and local lore has it that if you hold your breath for the length of the bridge, your wish comes true. We manage, blue in the face, and I wish for our luck to change. it seems we have had nothing but worries and bad feelings for the last three weeks. We follow the signs for the car park and again manage to get stuck. Under the watchful eye of the students of the local school, hanging cool with their sultry good looks and ciggarettes, we reverse and drive off like pros, deciding we will no longer take the caravan into the Spanish towns, they are labrynthian, narrow, steep and twisted, often leading to dead ends, with no turning places. Best to park on the outskirts and walk.

We stock up on provisions, ordering cheese from the shop keepers, and go for a drink in a local cafe. We decide to take Jane and Jaimey up on their offer. So we find the note, check the map and head off. The instructions are vague, and only one of our mapbooks has the local town on it. None have the villiage marked, and the only instructions we had were to go to Nueva and take the road up the mountain. We stop and ask directions, part Spanish, part sign language, and the man points us in the right direction. We make our slow assent up the foothills. The road is steep and narrow, we are slightly nervous about the terrain we will encounter, but it soon becomes apparent that once the journey up has started, there is no way back. The road is so narrow it would be impossible to turn. The views become breathtaking, the sun spills through the dips in the mountains, almost tangible, and the road climbs and narrows. From one side of the valley we can see the road clinging to the mountain on the other side. The sun shines in our eyes blinding us both as we turn the corner from one side of the mountain to the other. By the time we reach the tiny road leading to the village, I am almost in tears. There are hairpin bends and no barriers but at last we turn the corner to the breathtaking views and with relief, see our hosts with their caravan, just down the road. We park the rig.
Everything is beautiful...

Viva Espagna

28.11.07

We have finally embarked on the ferry. Our cabin is on the 6th level, pink corridors, carpets, doors and bedding, much to the girls' delight. We had a slap-up dinner, justified by the fact we no longer have to return to the UK half way through our trip, and went to see Pirates of the Caribbean in the onboard cinema. However, the rocking of the boat is too much for the kids, and Frida is sick seven times during the film. She fills four sick bags and we pile them up neatly in the corner, warm and heavy, for disposal after the feature. She is so brave and quietly heaves into her bags between scenes, pale faced and weak. We have the cinema to ourselves, and watch the film with growing confusion. It is so crap. It is turgid, boring rubbish and I sorely regret chosing to see it when we could have watched the sun go down over the Bay of Biscay instead. Afterwards we return to our cabin and I stroke her face til she falls asleep, then try to stop Silvie from her incessant chatter about the construction of the boat and the bunks, and the strength of it all. When she is still and quiet I look at her, in her bunk, and watch as her eyes glaze over and finally, slowly close, and she is asleep.

Mark and I pop out on deck, via the bar and cabaret, looking for the preferred route from Santander to Portugal. There are so many mountains and we worry about driving up them, and how slow we might have to go. But for the first few days we will chill, stay on the coast, maybe get a bit of good weather and take our time. The night is mild, we see the moon moving upwards the down again with the rocking of the boat, watch the white trail of the boat behind us marking out where we have been. We will be in Spain tomorrow, finally..

Turn Around

We have had three days of anxiety and panic. Stuck in a campsite on the outskirts of Plymouth, with practical problems galore. We have realised how totally disorganised we have been. The computer has been playing tricks on us – not charging the battery- the oil dip stick has become unstuck, the wheel clamp we have borrowed has a padlock and we have no key, the insurance company are still insisting we return to England after 90 days, then come back and continue for another three months rather than taking the full 180 days in one go. We have been walking around with knots in our stomachs, wondering what on earth we are thinking of, running away in a knackered old caravan pulled by a twenty seven year old car. Headless chickens.

Today however, everything comes into place. The girls are so happy, so pleased to be on an adventure, so laughing and happy and funny, they lift our spirits and bring us together despite our differences. In Plymouth Mark wins his battle with Norwich Union and they decide we can stay away for the full 180 days without a return trip – a massive weight off our minds. We traul the charity shops to find cagoules, boots, various stuff we have forgotten, but they are crap. Six in one street selling various tut made in third world countries for the western customers whims. They are sterile and soulless, trying to mimic 'new' shops. Oh for the days when you could buy other people's discards for next to nothing. Now it seems there is someone deciding what is and isn't saleable, acceptable, useable for their target customers. Poncing themselves up for the middle classes looking for a bargain. There was a time when they existed for a dual purpose. Making money for charity and providing stuff for the 'have nots' in the community. Recycling in action. Now they fly their products half way round the world to bring us all the ethnic gift items we crave.....



We will catch the ferry tomorrow. We are so close we cannot miss, and in fact the three days of living in the caravan have been infinitely useful and lovely. Getting up at the crack of dawn, seeing the sun rise in east, turning to see the moon behind, fading slowly as the morning progresses. Cold and misty, birds singing. Nature is a beautiful thing. We should cherish it.

The huge chimney in the distance belches out smoke, thick and grey, 24 hours a day. Plymouth is awash with ugly retail and trading estates, making more useless stuff for the population to buy. Can't wait to get out.

Capitalism, who needs it?

False Start

The day started well, awake at 6, dozing til 7, leaving at 8, all of us on a high. We drove off, with Shippy filming us on her phone, waving and emotional, and soon out of sight. The car was like a dream, cruising along the motorway, music playing, looking out the window at the beautiful somerset countryside, the sun low in the autumn sky, filtering between the branches of the passing trees, glaring into my camera lens.

I don't know what went wrong, but suddenly, after a mere ten word exchange, we weren't speaking, and the vibe had gone. It seemed the road went only up, and the car performed magnificently, good practice for the Spanish mountains. At one point we slowed to thirty, second gear engaged, but she climbed and climbed onwards and upwards. We arrived at Plymouth with 15 minutes to spare, filled up with diesel then went to find the port. We had allowed ourselves four hours when the journey should have taken three, we were self satisfied and confident, but when we arrived at the ferry terminal, it became obvious that we had made a mistake. Wrong time. I had read the arrival time as the departure time. Despite our good intentions, we had missed the ferry. We saw her waiting as we cruised up to the port, but she was departing as we arrived. I can't describe the feeling of self loathing, of waiting so long already only to be faced with another set back due to my own stupidity. I did scream like a madwoman for a full ten minutes – such a drama queen.

Thirty minutes and a cup of coffee later, we sat in the port eating lunch in the caravan, deciding what to do for three days until the next one. Wild camp on Dartmoor? Vetoed by Mark. The guy at the ferry terminal offered us a pitch in the carpark, or the wasteland next the sea, tempting (not the carpark!) but we take the safe option and find a campsite and embark in our first night in the caravan since February.

I can report that it is very cosy. Right now the girls are sleeping in their bunks after hot dogs and chocolate, yahtzee and stories. They have explored the site, climbed the trees, rated the toilets, practiced morse code with the old war time torch Mark has lent them, and seem not too disappointed.

The Rig

the Safari and the Merc have been paired up at last, and have taken their maiden voyage as a couple. She does not actually look like this yet (the stripe has not been painted due to excessive rainfall), but I amused myself on photoshop, and brought the vision to life..

The week has been damp and gloomy, both physically and spiritually. The caravan has let in water. We have been working every night till the early hours to finish our work and are tired and disorganised. The rain has prevented me from painting the 'go slower' stripe on the caravan. The house is full of damp, drying washing, and the days seem over before they have begun.
But today Mark's orders are complete, and the film I have been editing is finished, and suddenly everything seems like it's actually happenning. We have good friends and neighbours cooking us 'last suppers' and there is a pile of bagage on the landing, waiting to be packed in the car. Another media company have been in touch about a future project. We have learnt from experience not to put too much stead in their enthusiasm, but who knows? You have to follow these things, otherwise you'll never know what will happen.

The girls have both had their hair cut for ease of brushing during the trip. They are already starting to look like travellers. They ask for patches on their clothes when the sewing machine is out, and are revelling in the anti fashion ethos. They are at caravan school and can wear whatever they want. They have learnt all the lyrics to Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' in 2 days.

just one damned thing.....

...after another

The ferry leaves on Wednesday or Sunday. Two sailings a week. Mark's massive card order is moving towards it's natural conclusion, and we are on track. On Monday, the BBC phone to say they may want to use the house as a location in a reconstruction. They can pay us £900 for two days filming. Good news, relax. My dear friend Sue will house sit, the caravan looks fantastic, the children are coming round to their new way of learning, farms have been confirmed, we have had our leaving party, and to top it all, someone is dropping extra cash into our laps. It is a good start to the week.

I am told to have faith in a dream - and then everything goes wrong.

This morning we woke up, having finally shaken the weekend's hangover (we are technically too old for that level of consumption), and decide to hitch up the caravan. We push and pull her, then, turning round, realise she has a flat tyre. We pump it up with a crappy handpump we bought from the pound shop, managing a coffe and a fag during the lengthy process. When the job is done, and we have tested the lights are working, Mark revs up the car for the caravan's maiden voyage on the Merc. I rush to get my camera. As I do so, the car dies. I literally run out of the gate to hear it's apparent death throes.

We think she has run out of gas. Mark goes to buy some on his bike. No joy. He buys some more, and some more, but to no avail. We learn the worst thing you can do with a diesel engine is let it run out of fuel, and it seems we have committed the sin. Dan tells us it's air in the pipes, fixable. We follow his instructions, but still it won't work. The guy at the garage it was booked into for a service doesn't want to know. The Green Flag can't fix it.

The man in the shop can't make the number plate, I walk into a lamp post, a virus tries to invade my computer. I am too scared to book the ferry ticket, lest the ferry has stopped running. the day is fast becomming a jinx.



Later, Rennae offers me words of kindness. It is a good thing, she says, it could have happened on the way to the ferry. On a mountain top in Spain. I can see this. It has occurred to me also. It is a blessing in disguise.
Sometimes it is important to look at the larger picture. Things are not always as they seem.

New Plans

The date of departure has been pushed back a week - hopefully we shall be leaving about the 17th, and we breath a sigh of relief for the extra time. After the general outrage of having to notify banks, mortgage company, insurance companies, fill in forms, modify the house, and store our horde to 'allow' us to let our own home, we have decided not to - we will live on less when we're travelling instead. I can now spend my time finishing the caravan and planning our route.

Farms on helpx (www.helpx.net) have been selected and emails sent. Galicia, Portugal, and Granada, goats, pigs, horses and dry stone walls beckon. We will restore, clear, build and garden in return for free food and accomodation. I have even applied for work in a hotel and bar, an incentive to improve my rubbish Spanish. All we do now is sit back and wait for the replies, and see what we are offered.

I bumped into Fred again today, all spruced up with his too big shirt and jumper over his extravagant neckerchief. Today he recited a poem about death, and told me of his time as a dispatch rider in the war. I ask him to see his poetry some time, the quality of it is astounding, and he remembers every line and delivers them with passion belying his 94 years. He walks off slowly with his one walking stick for support, looking like the slightest breeze will blow him over - such spirit in such a fragile frame.

I am back to work on the caravan and realise I now have time to polish it to near perfection. Tomorrow I will rebuild the bathroom (not at all as grand as it sounds) and buff the upper panels. The girls work in their caravan school house, contented.

November already

If there's one time of year the house really lends itself to, it's Halloween. We have a giant spider resident above the kitchen door, and our hearts give a little skip everytime we pass through. However, the cobwebs aren't quite visible enough, so we hunt under the stairs for last years fake stuff. It's a nightmare to unravel, as my hands are as rough as sandpaper, and catch constantly in the fibrous material. All the scrubbing has had an adverse effect. The children have spent the morning researching the Mexican Day of The Dead, and Halloween, and we make 'bread of the dead' and carve pumpkins to honour them both. Their friends arrive, and we eat the traditional 'worms in blood sauce' and 'scab cakes' by candlelight, then finish off with ghost stories round the roaring fire.

Mark and I have a night off, and discuss our options in letting the house. The new tenant is elusive and we have to consider a plan B, as there are now less than two weeks til our departure. Cash is proving to be a major worry. The mortgage company want £200 to allow us to rent our house out, the electicity and gas checks will be the same again, the car needs fixing, a laptop needs buying - it feels like all our money will be spent before we even leave. I need to think creatively about what to do, but everything seems to be closing in, my mind is a fog of unconnected thoughts, and flits ever faster from one to the next, not quite managing to make sense of any of them. I need to relax and get things into proportion, but can't quite manage it.

November the 1st already. I wake up feeling close to tears, and make porridge for everyone. Mark and I hardly speak, we are both so engrossed in our own schedules. Too much going on in our individual heads, so that all exchange is curt and unfinished and we snap and grunt at each other. The children too are argumentative, and Silvie has circles under her eyes from the late night and cries at the slightest provocation. All my attempts to comfort and reconcile her with her sister fail, so I take her back to bed for a sleep. She is miserable, and takes it as a punishment despite my soft words, and I leave her abruptly before my temper flares, knowing full well she will not sleep, but instead creep into the little loft space and play with some long forgotten toy that has been packed away in readiness, or read voraciously with her tired little eyes until I return. Frida is on track with her school work. She is shining and happy with caravan school, and pleased to be relieved of the distraction that is her little sister. I go and clear out cupboards, my stimulating new job. The big green recycling bin is full of the old magazines and paperwork that has been building up for years. It feels like moving house all over again.

We are going to Yorkshire to see Doreen, Mark's mum at 7 O'clock, and I am frantic and over emotional, and desperate to get on. The children want me constantly, and my temper flares. I take Silvie to see the Headmaster, 'Mr Dobbs' (A.K.A. Mark), and he offers her the kind, calm words and that I was unable to provide.

Later, in the garden, me and Mark have the row that has been brewing all week, and we go as far as calling the trip off. Both of us. He threatens, and I bark back my assent and we separate in a fury. Twenty minutes later he brings his peace offerings of coffee and cigarettes, and we speak gently and apologetically to each other. He offers me some time alone. He will take the children to Yorkshire without me, and I will phone Doreen to chat and apologise for my absence. I have gained a full day and a half. Time to think and be alone. My body relaxes. We hold each other and kiss each other's faces. We are back together as a team with a mission.

Schools and Students

Caravan school has started in earnest. The girls have a story and poem book, a geography and history book, a diary and a scooter for play time. I explain the work they have to do during the day. They are excited and enthusiastic and I leave them, sticking tracing paper to their atlas and rifling amongst their box of pens, to continue work on the caravan. It is slow progress and my concentration span and staying power are fading fast. I manage to clean half of the back window shield. No scratches, beautifully shiny.

Mike McCabe arrives. He is a student from Falmouth College of Arts who has travelled to London to photograph the house and use it for one of his final year projects. We chat, leave him to take photographs, and return to our chores. The girls help me during play time. They buff the surface between scooter rides, like a perpetual relay. Up and down the street twice, then switch - cloth and scooter change hands and we continue. We all have lunch together, Mike and us. Beans on toast for five. It is rather like having the lovely Ottilie at home. They are the same age, both in their final year, and it lifts my spirits to have this opportunity to think about her. After plates are cleared, Jonny and Sandra arrive. I have promised them pumpkins from the allotment, so I take the girls for their biology lesson, and me and the Pod make our way to Taylors Lane. He chooses two and we dig up the fresh horseradish I have recently discovered. I pull up carrots and onions for dinner. We go home to cook it, Frida chopping the onions with her medium sized knife and Silvie cutting carrots with her small one. I keep my eyes peeled for their fingers.

Not much progress made today.

Working out the best way to let the flat is proving to be incredibly stressful. It is virgin territory. We start to panic about what we will do if someone doesn't pay the rent and we're 600 miles away. But it soon passes. No doubt the stress is starting to play tricks with our minds. Only two more weeks before we sail off and leave it all behind us.

Stay focussed 'Miss Kate'.

Rollercoaster

Beautiful beginnings. Rapturous welcome from the girls as I arrived in Bristol 10 minutes late for Frida's Newsround debut. Despite taking a car load of possession for Mum and Dad to store when we leave, I manage to come away with a broken BMX and a scooter for the girls. More things to store. Gathering fixable items is verging on obsession.

Arrive home at 10.30pm to see a light in the caravan. Mark is moving around frantically with sticky tape and cardboard. It seems some numbskull has put the window through. We discuss how it happened and put our heads in our hands, imagining the hassle involved in getting it fixed.

I take the girls to bed as Mark effects a temporary repair. They are happy and relaxed. School is off for six months. Tomorrow they start at 'Caravan School' and are excited at the prospect. They go straight to sleep, cuddling their new pillows - a gift for their travels from my mother. They are obsessed by the smell of them. Silvie's smells of raisins and Frida's smells of 'new' - the word has taken on the form of abstract noun.

We paste a 'Staff Room' sign on the dining room door in preparation for the morning.

Good fortune smiles on us. I check my emails and get an update from the 'safari enthususiasts' club. Seems a member had his window smashed that very day. For a moment, I think Mark has been supremely organised and has posted our problem on the message board. Just underneath is a remedy. 'If someone put it in you can take it out'. Ah, the simplicity of old things. It includes concise instructions on what to do. Thank you AlecGatherer.

We plan the day ahead.

Mark debates whether to sleep in the caravan, Rambo style, in case of repeat attacks. We decide against it.

scrubbing and clearing

Got up, went out. The usual pattern. The usual clothes. We have been living like gypsies. I get out of bed, put on socks, dress on top of nightie, jeans, jumper, coat and boots - without even thinking. Making a decision about what to wear takes time, which is at a premium. so we wear the same clothes day in day out. I haven't been naked for three days - preparing ourselves physically as well as practically for the trip.

The caravan is looking good. I can see it finished in my mind's eye, I can imagine overtaking us on a Spanish motorway, seeing ourselves reflected in the mirrored, buffed up aluminium surface. I imagine it in slow motion. I have restored the front, the back and part of one side. The transformation is attracting interest. Today, I conversed with a couple who could remember the caravan 'the first time round'. Prestigious in those days, it seems. I imagine a cocktail cabinet, or optics dotted around the confined space inside. Bill came and chatted about Spain and architecture - I think he rarely has the chance to talk of these 'high minded' topics amongst his social circle. Yesterday, a 95 year old man recited love poetry to me, something he had written for his wife. He tells me she isn't interested in the same things that he is. A cyclist stopped just to see what was going on and we chatted for a while about destinations and hard work. It's good being amongst the people, and lovely to share these revelations.

Cleared out the girls' room. After panicking for months that the electrics in the loft were faulty, we found out the extension lead had been unplugged. Paul didn't even have to change the fuse. I went through the room methodically. Clearing the products of childrens long forgotten activities from under beds and cupboards. A hard job. I sorted - to children we know; car boot (saleable) and charity shop. Some things have to go. Not recyclable. There will be more rubbish than recycling this week. It will be a first.

I had a bath tonight. I had forgotten what my body looked like.

preparations

Preparations are finally underway for the grand tour. Today we managed to get a whole section of the caravan up to a fine gleam, and found a little treasure under the cracking paintwork, which could have been lost forever. It kept our spirits up on this cold and breezy day. 6 hours of scraping and wiping, mindless repetition, with the leaves constantly floating down, forming themselves into little brown piles in the gutter which disguised the similar toned dog shit that i managed to step in twice.

Recycled a cooker to Jules. We 'inherited' it from Margaret, our previous neighbour, after she died. Seemed sad to see it dumped outside the flat so we took it in and thought about her when we cooked on it. After its brief sojourn with the ShippHill household its moved on to jules. As if the cooker's taken on a life of it's own, we've been around for the first three stages. new, 2nd hand, recycled. who knows, one day it might achieve 'vintage', 'rarity' even 'antique'.

The house is full of dust, it billows from the kitchen, through the weave of the sheet that hangs pinned to the doorframe. Paul comes out grey, and we realise we shouldn't complain. The kitchen is being rewired, and we find countless wires hanging plugless out of the walls behind the cupboards. We've lived like this for 2 years, but we can't expect a tenant to take on such a high risk lifestyle it seems.

No heat, so we've resorted to wearing our outdoor clothes indoors.

The place is in semi chaos, the kitchen has moved into ottilie's room, mark's studio has moved into the dining room, and the living room is covered with lists of jobs to be done - no children this week so the motivation to tidy has ceased to exist.
So much to do and so little time.