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.