Lingo

I’m about to hit a 2300 day streak on Duolingo, which is about 6 ¼ years. Learning French. Every day. You’d think I’d be fluent. You’d think I’d reached the point when I could be part of Paris café culture, sipping coffee on the left bank, wearing a beret, and discussing philosophy and art with my fellow intellectuals.

 

Well, one part is true. I’m in France, near the Seine. But not in Paris. I’m in a little town called Jumieges and I’m watching a man and his dog. The dog is still only a puppy really. Still frisky. Perhaps two or three years old. The man throws the ball. The dog chases. The man shouts some commands. The dog obeys. The dog rolls over in response to some verbal instruction.

 

Here’s the thing. The dog has been learning French for two, maybe three years. It understands what’s its master is telling it to do. I, on the other hand, have been learning French for 6 ¼ years and I understand none of it. Not a word. If the man told me to roll over, or fetch, I’d stand there with a gormless expression. I understand less French than a dog.

 

So, I will celebrate more than six years of persistence but accept that I have failed. Goodbye Duolingo. Enough is enough.

 

I will roll over.

The Annual Mackerel Run

I'm getting excited about my upcoming caravan holiday in France. I'm not going as far into France this year because, well, there have been hidden costs: Insurance is more expensive, breakdown and recovery insurance is way more (it was free last year because we took a gamble on not breaking down, which we didn't, but I've lost confidence in Ada, my car.) And then there's the cost of putting fuel in the tank. Let's not go there.

So what's with the title, the Annual Mackerel Run? It's to do with diet. Mononsaturated fats. Omega 3. Lowering Cholesterol. After a year of miserable salads based around tuna, salmon and mackerel, I'm ready for something exciting in the food department, and for this, France is the place to go. No, no, not wine — I don't drink, not anymore. Not cheese, either because cheese is right at the top of the no-go, too-much-fat list. But one thing the French do way better than anyone else (at least as far as I'm aware) is Mackerel. 

Here in the UK we have a tiny choice: tinned mackerel in tomato sauce or tinned mackerel in, well, some sort of oily liquid. And the last time we tried to buy either, they were out of stock. But in France... well, take a look. The photo shows the mackerel aisle in one of the smaller supermarkets (this one was in Nemours). So many flavours. So many varieties. Mackerel in mustard sauce, Mexican mackerel, Mediterranean mackerel... My favourite is Mackerel in white wine with olives. Love it!

While we're in France, mackerel will be the focal point of our diets. What's more, we'll be bringing back cases of the stuff. When we pass through post-Brexit customs on our way home, and we're asked, "Anything to declare?" they're expecting us to say wine or tobacco. We'll have Mackerel. Tins and tins of it. Maybe there'll be a special line for Brits with car-loads of Mackerel. There should be.  

  

Flying in a Box

 

When I started this blog I wanted to use it as a place to share all the exciting places we've been to in the caravan, unusual walks, cycle routes...

Well, we took the 'van for a service in February 2020, then we washed it, and then... took it for another service in February 2021. It's been that kind of year. But I'm not complaining; I'm just grateful to still be here. And hey, we've discovered lots of walks, cycle routes and places we didn't know existed within a few miles of our home on the Wirral. It's given us a new perspective about where we live.

Still, I missed the caravan.

I haven't been totally inactive though. I published book three of the Travelling in a Box series. If you've read the other two books you'll have picked up hints that we were about to board a plane for the very first time, and... well the title gives it away, doesn't it. Flying in a Box isn't just about fear of flying or our frenetic road trip around California. It isn't just about the snake and bear attacks or the Oscar-like award ceremony where I received a writing award. No, after America we needed to unwind, and what better way to chill than embarking on a nerve-jangling, thousand-mile tow down to the French Mediterranean.

There's even a flashback to a wild camping trip (wild in the lunatic sense) I tried, with a school friend, in our early teens. And yes, me and Sarah get to Italy. But was it Milan? That would be telling. If you want to know you'll have to read the book. This link will take you straight to it.

Let's hope 2021 will be a better year for all of us.

Two in a Box

It has taken a while, but Two in a Box, the second book in what has evolved into the Travelling in a Box series, is now available for pre-order on Kindle and will launch next Sunday 17th February, in paperback and most ebook formats.

This one picks up the story in France after we had, at last, achieved the family's goal of taking our thirty-year-old caravan all the way to the Swiss Alps. Without incident? Well, you'll have to wait and see, but come on, who wants to read about trips that don't involve some kind of adversity? And was one trip enough? One trip is never enough. We went back for more. Of course we did.

If you'd like to listen to a snippet, I was interviewed on Vintage Radio last week where I read a few pages. The show's being repeated tonight (Sunday 10 Feb) at 9pm here.

Hay Festival

Oh look, I've stumbled on a place with internet connectivity. Time to do a catch-up post about our June tour, north to south through Wales. So far we've visited Hay-on-Wye, St David's in Pembrokeshire, and Swansea.

We started our journey with the Hay Festival at the end of May, and I'm sorry to report I have nothing amusing to share, because it was all good. In fact, this was our best Hay Festival visit ever. The weather was good. The camp site was perfect. The talks, all of them, were excellent. I can't tell you about floods or mud or flapping canvas, because there was none of that.

I remember the year when, after returning home, mid-week, to do the accountancy thing for my employers, I rushed back to the caravan for the second weekend and forgot to bring the keys for the caravan security lock. I remember the year we forgot to take sweaters and waterproofs and wellies – that was the year they had to get the local fire brigade to pump out the water from the festival site. I remember the year, every year, complaining about being unable to see the whole festival because I could never get time off from work.

Well, none of that. I no longer have the time-off-work problem. We've found the perfect camp site. It didn't rain – not much, anyway. So I'll just share some photos and leave it at that.

Hay-on-Wye: Looks just like France, doesn't it?

Oh, except to say, that the day we left Hay and headed south, the weather took a turn. Biblical rain. Then hurricanes and stuff. But you'll have to wait for that part.

Hoovering the Garden

The world is insane. I am insane. If anyone had told me, a few years back, that I would spend a day driving around garden centres looking for a spare part so I could hoover my garden, then I’d have suggested locking them away in a room with all the sharp edges removed.

But yes, I am sad and shallow and I want to hoover my garden. There are leaves. Many leaves. And because I am idle I have a Flymo GardenVac, and the shredder thingy has snapped, (see photo) so I need to buy a new one. It is a standard consumable, just a bit of plastic wire, and they tend to snap and need to be replaced from time to time. I could buy one from Amazon but I could really do with it now and the mini-helicopter delivery system isn’t quite ready yet.

“We’ll have to go to a garden centre,” I said.

A reasonable thing to say. Garden centres have garden stuff, don’t they? Well, apparently not. Garden centres have nothing for gardens. They have Santa’s grottos and they have overpriced clothing and ornaments and wicker furniture and wooden plaques with motivational slogans. They have bad joke books and books with photos of the British coast from the air. They have kitchen equipment in jaunty bright colours that cost three times the price of the old kitchen equipment that used to come in perfectly acceptable stainless steel. They have bird boxes, and sacks of bird food that costs more than supermarket muesli (but probably tastes the same). Or I could buy a little basket with two jars of jam nestling in a bed of paper straw. Why? Why the hell do I need jam in a basket? What do I do with the basket afterwards? And what about the little red and white paper covers held over the vacuum-sealed lids with rubber bands: why do I need paper lids on the jam? Why? Do they make the jam taste better?

And before I’m done with my garden centre visit, as I’m striding with a purpose towards the exit, I could pause by the DVD rack and pick up a black and white WWII DVD or one about steam trains or Fred Dibnah, each carefully cropped to fit a square TV screen, to remind me about how good things used to be in the old days.

You remember the old days?

The days when you went to a garden centre to buy garden stuff!

A Trip Around Cardiff Bay

As a diversion from my usual caravan posts I'm admitting here and now that sometimes I go to the dark side and stay in hotels. I had the chance of free rail travel down to Cardiff and it is very hard to take a caravan on the train. So yes, I'm a traitor to the cause. But Cardiff is such a lovely city to visit that I'm sure we'll do it again, and maybe next time we will take the 'van. Mind you, in December it was very nice to have a warm room and someone to make the bed and bring clean towels each day.

I love the way the low sun hits this water feature in Roald Dahl Plans.

It has been a few years since we last visited Cardiff, and I hardly recognised the area around the station. New buildings have gone up all over the place. There are two huge indoor shopping centres, but the character hasn't changed at all. Linking the main streets there are still plenty of the narrow covered arcades full of fascinating and different shops.

Looking across to Mermaid Quay and all the eateries.

The highlight of our visit, though, was Cardiff Bay. It's about a mile to walk, but the train from Queen Street Station takes you there in under ten minutes. Head for the copper clad Millennium Theatre and the fabulous water feature in Roald Dahl Plass. Then there's a path to the left that goes right out to the barrage and over to Penarth. The sun was shining on the day we visited and it really is a fabulous walk, even in December.

Home of the Welsh Assembly, The Senedd.

The walk goes past the front of the Welsh Assembly building, The Senedd. We didn't go inside on this occasion, but we did on our last visit, and it's worth doing just that, if only to admire the fabulous ceiling of red cedar that mushrooms up from above the debating chamber and ripples in waves across the ceiling and outside to form the huge porch. There's a viewing gallery above the chamber, and the whole interior is a wide, light and airy space, where you can just sit and admire the whole thing. 

This is how to do public seating. A tribute to Roald Dahl.

Back on the walk there are plenty of reminders that Cardiff is proud of its association with Roald Dahl. Not only is the square in front of the theatre named after him, but the Norwegian Church where he was christened still stands (and is a good place for a coffee) and now and again you might come across other memorials, such as the crocodile and bench, part way around the bay walk. 

We are also reminded that Captain Robert Falcon Scott set sail on his ill fated exhibition to the South Pole from Cardiff - another link with the Norwegian Church - and there is a memorial to Captain Scott and his Terra Nova crew, part way around the bay.

And of course there's Doctor Who. All I will say here is that the Doctor Who Experience is fabulous. If you want to know more you should take a look at my scifi blog, here.

Yes, okay. Daleks. (I'm a SciFi writer, so of course I'm going to mention Doctor Who) Terry Nation, who created the Daleks, came from Cardiff, and the Doctor Who Experience, right on the Cardiff Bay walk, is a must see exhibit.

 A brilliant visit, but the caravan is calling once more. Let's get Christmas out of the way so we can get back on the road.

Two in a Box

Moreton-in-Marsh: Full of autumn colour

I sometimes think the caravan can be more fun in the winter than in summer. Back in the days of failed heating, zero insulation and ice cold, hand numbing tap water I might have argued the other way, but winter caravanning, now, is good. It is warmer and more cosy in the caravan that at home.

We headed for the Cotswolds. I had a sci-fi convention to attend in Bristol and I need no further excuse.

But that was the end of October, early November. Today is 29^th November, so why only talk about it now? Well, I’ve had a project. I’ve been preoccupied with NaNoWriMo.

What is NaNoWriMo?
It’s short for National Novel Writing Month and it comes around every November, and it is a kind of challenge, to write a fifty thousand word novel in the thirty days of November. It’s supported by websites and a buddy network and graphs. (I can't resist graphs. Graphs plus writing: sign me up.)
Well, I’ve never tried NaNoWriMo before. It’s been on the to-do list for years. Maybe this is the year to start. 

“I’m going to try NaNoWriMo,” I said. 

We were in the caravan at Moreton-in-Marsh. Outside was dark, nearly freezing and only five o’clock.

“What’s NaNoWriMo?” said Sarah.

I explained.

“You’re going to write a full novel in November? The whole thing?”

“No. Not a novel. Something else.”

“So…?”

“I can’t write the third Sphere of Influence novel because I need to edit the second book first. The story might change.”

“What are you going to write then?”

“Two in a Box.”

And that’s how it started. I’d never intended Travelling in a Box to be a series, but then the book did come to an end in 2001, and I suppose a lot of stuff has happened since then: problems with the old caravan after it started to bend, arrested in Chamonix, losing part of the car in Belgium… and the whole family growing up and moving out thing. Yes, there’s at least one other book there.

So I pulled out the laptop and started, on that dark cold night in Moreton-in-Marsh, two thousand words a day, my target.

And here I am, at the end of November, the proud owner of a NaNoWriMo badge and fifty-thousand words of Two in a Box in the can. I’m not finished yet. I’m guessing another thirty thousand should nail it. But I imagine Two in a Box will be hitting Amazon early in the year. You heard about it here first. More news to follow in the blog.

Okay, so what of Bristol and the Cotswolds?

Loved it! Bristolcon was fabulous, as always. Nothing went wrong with our travel plans. Nothing fell off the car. Nothing broke in the caravan. Didn't need to hunt down any hospital A&Es... Lovely caravan sites, autumn colours were fabulous. Makes a rotten story when that happens, doesn't it? 

So I’ll just tell it in pictures:    

The village of Broadway

Bourton in the Water

Broadway Tower

Driving Lesson

I'm having to go around in my wife's car at the moment, for reasons I won't go into here.

Last night I came away from our Writers' meeting and found myself nose in to a parking space, in total darkness. It took me a couple of minutes to find the headlamps, but then came problem no. 2. Where is reverse? I know there's a little diagram on the gear stick, but it was dark, and of all the times I've driven my wife's car I've never had to do it in the dark, and I've never had to go backwards. I stirred away with the gearstick, grinding and mashing the gears, trying all the usual places, but I swear, reverse was just not on there. I'm not a mechanical simpleton. I've removed gearboxes and changed clutches in the front street. But this... Well I hope nobody was looking. They'd have seen the door open a crack. They'd have seen a leg sticking out and the car creeping backwards. I reversed out like driving a kid's pedal car. Oh the humiliation!

Yeah, I found where reverse was, this morning. It wasn't there last night, though. I swear.

Feast of Lanterns

Back home from the National Feast of Lanterns, the Camping and Caravanning Club's annual bash to celebrate the end of the camping season.

Had a brilliant weekend that finished with a rousing Last Night of the Proms Concert, delivered by the club band and the Malvern Male Voice Choir. A brilliant party atmosphere that was a fitting closer to to the weekend.

Before that, though, we had trade stands and live music and the part that is my own favourite, the Saturday night torchlight procession and the street scenes. This is were caravan form up in 'streets' and light up their units according to the theme of the weekend. This year the theme was The Movies, and as always there were some fantastic illuminated displays. Forget Blackpool lights, this is where the real action is. Remember this is all done with cardboard and fairy lights and loads of ingenuity. I've taken pictures of a couple of my favourites, but so many displays deserve mentions that it hardly seems fair to show just two.

This is the King Kong scene. It's hard to see it here but the best bit is the expression of surprise on the monkey's face.

I had to include this. First Encounters of the Third Kind. Atmospheric music, chasing lights, and the way the light cast a shadow of the aliens was just brilliant.

So next year the NFOL is off to Sussex and we plan to be there again. Can't wait.

The R(h)oss-on-Something Collection

We seem to have been doing a spot of Rhos bagging. Four in four months in fact. In May we visited Rhos-on-Sea, one of our favourite weekend getaways, with South Lancs DA. Then in June we spent a week at Rhosson Ganol, near St Davids for seaside holiday no.1.

Peace and quiet beside the River Wye.

In July we took seaside holiday No.2 in Weymouth, but broke the journey home with a stay at Ross-on-Wye, in the company of the friendly folk of East Worcestershire DA.

This was an insanely quiet spot. At night we lay in bed and listened to the sound of the fish jumping in the river.

Then, this last weekend we returned to Rhos-on-Sea, to Dinarth Hall Farm. This time our hosts were the East and West Yorkshire British Caravanners' Club.

So there we have it: Four Rhos-on-somethings in four months. Weird huh?

Rhos-on-Sea is just over an hour from home and we've taken to visiting the site every time a DA is on hand to run a holiday meet. It has become almost a second home these days.

Dinarth Hall Farm, Rhos-on-Sea. Lovely!

We have a favourite walk from the site into Llandudno, right along the seafront and over the Little Orme. This time, though, we broke with tradition and tried something new. We headed inland and found a route over the hills between Rhos and Llandudno. It started poorly, with Sarah lacerating her leg on a sentient and evil bramble, and we then followed a path that led us through a cowpat-infested quagmire, hemmed in between an impassable wall and an electric fence. Later we found that the fence wasn't plugged in, and we could have easily taken a dry line up the field. We'll know next time.

But then we came out onto the hillside, called Nant-y-gamar and it was all worthwhile for the views across Llandudno over to the Great Orme.

The route up to Nant-y-gamar

It was another lovely spot for a picnic and we didn't even have to share our sandwiches with the seagulls, who were all busily patrolling the beach.

While we were in Ross without an 'h' (on Wye) I saw that the DA were selling second-hand books to raise money for the air ambulance. I thought it would be nice to donate one of my own copies of Travelling in a Box. It seemed a good way to get the book out to caravanners and help a good cause at the same. The books seemed to go down well with the stewards; they were most enthusiastic.

So then, here in Rhos with an 'h' I noticed the BCC were also selling books, and also for the air ambulance (this time the Yorkshire version) and so again I gave them a couple of signed TIAB books. Again, the stewards were delighted, and said they would like to auction the books at their fund raiser in Ripon. Sounds brilliant. EWYBCC don't have a website so here's a plug for their five-day meet from 13th October at Ripon Racecourse (I hope I've remembered the date correctly). Lots of events. Lots of fun. Lots of money for a worthwhile charity. 

A Real Summer in Weymouth

This week we’re staying on a holiday site at the rugby club in Weymouth, stewarded by Mike and Sue of Dorset DA. We’ve been here before and it is a terrific location within easy walking distance of the beach, the park and nature reserve, and a good supermarket that has a cafe with WiFi and very welcome air conditioning. Because it is hot! It is the sort of hot you’d pay lots of money for, and travel a thousand miles to find, and we have it all here in lovely Dorset. To think, a couple of days before we left home I was moaning about the British summer and debating switching on the central heating. A few hours and a couple of hundred miles and like caravanning on the Med. How jammy is that?

I mentioned “easy walk”. Well, I have a thing about about easy walks. On our first day we set off into Weymouth, paddled along the coast, through Weymouth town and beyond, because I wanted to see Sandsfoot Castle. I hadn’t seen Sandsfoot Castle before. We walked on and on, ignoring the most excellent live band that were playing on the harbour front. Ignoring the 80F sun that hammered down onto our heads.

“It’s just a bit further,” I said, again and again.

Weymouth Harbour. Could just as easily be the Med.

We found Sandsfoot Castle. We staggered into the nearest shade and slugged down drinks from the cafe. Did we go and look at the castle? Or the beautiful gardens? Not a chance. We’d staggered over six miles and we faced another six miles to get back. Too knackered to even photograph the castle, we set off on the return trek under the relentless sun. I think the castle looked good. It’s hard to tell when you’re delirious with heat stroke.

Hours later, back at the caravan, we made a pact. We decided it might be a good idea if we tried something new and unprecidented this week – if we tried doing what people usually do on holiday. Relaxing.

Bennett's Water Gardens. Just like Giverny but without the crowds.

So we’ve been to Bennett’s Water Gardens (in the car) and strolled around the cool, shady pools, rested on benches, watched the dragonflies and admired the water lilies. We had another day in Swanage, where we strolled along the prom, walked on the pier and had tea in tea shops. There, you see, we can be sensible. We’ve never been to Swanage before. It’s lovely. Sandy beach, warm sea. Interesting seaside shops.

We even managed to resist stopping off at Corfe Castle on the way through. Last time we clambered up to Corfe Castle the temperature was, like this day, up in the mid 80’s, so we thought, yeah, been there, done that. Don’t get me wrong, we loved Corfe Castle, but we’ll wait for cooler weather, I think. I don’t want to spend the rest of our week in A&E.

A Leopard 1 tank in action at the Tank Museum, Bovington

If you are visiting this part of the world a must-see attraction is the tank museum at Bovington. Check the web site first to make sure there are live action displays on the day you visit, because they are brilliant - lots of smoke and explosions and engine noises you can feel right inside your chest. But even away from the action, there is a huge amount to see, and we both found the Trench Experience exhibit to be eye opening, informative and very moving.

Only a few days left and lots more to see. This is our third visit to Weymouth and it won’t be our last.

This holiday is going well. They don’t always. Travelling in a Box is now available not only as a paperback and on Kindle, but also on iBooks and Kobo.

A Postcard from Wales

Rhosson Ganol. Wish you were here?

Does it mark me out as being a bit old fashioned, that I send postcards when I’m on holiday? I could email or Instagram or put pictures on Facebook. Hell, I could just ring people. It’s not hard in this day and age.

It isn’t the same though. A postcard carries history. It feels travelled. A postcard will often bear the scars of a journey and adventure: the words might be smeared by rain; the corners are often tatty and dog-eared; the postman might have left some of his breakfast on the picture on the front. Often times the stamp will be postmarked with a blurry ink-pad logo that has missed the stamp and obliterates half the words. If you’re lucky it will have been lost and found and postmarked twice. All of this is evidence that you are far far away. Somewhere remote… On Holiday!

Postcards are hard to write. You sit in the coffee shop, pen in hand, and decide who will write to whom. “I’ll do the kids, you do the parents, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“What are you going to write?”

“Dunno.”

I wonder how many cards I’ve written over the years that start ‘Having a great time’ while the rain softens and delaminates the card and the ink blooms and spreads.

But we always write them. It wouldn’t be a holiday otherwise.

We’re in St Davids, in Pembrokeshire, South West Wales. (Actually I’m back home, reminiscing. No internet in St Davids! But hey, I’ll stay in the present just to maintain the illusion).

I’m leery about divulging the name of the site, because this is probably the best campsite in the world. It certainly has the best view. But here goes, at the risk of scuppering things for years to come when we can’t get on because it’s fully booked, our site is called Rhosson Ganol, and it is just west of St Davids overlooking the St Justinians lifeboat station. It is a small piece of heaven. There are no electrics, there is no mobile signal, it isn’t flat, but it is lovely.

There is a postbox. (See picture) It’s a good thing. St Davids is about four miles away, and to use the car feels like cheating. But it’s good. This is all the civilisation we need on holiday: a tap, an Elsan point and a postbox.

We finished our cards and strolled down the lane so they’d catch the morning collection. Sarah climbed through the nettles beside the wall and tried to post the cards. They wouldn’t go in. She tried again. Some kind of obstruction.

Then the air went black.

It seems our postbox has become a bees nest. Or it might have been wasps, some evil, buzzy, stingy thing for sure - we didn’t hang around for entomology or apiology or whatever.

We walked to St Davids.

More camping and caravanning tales can be found in  the Travelling in a Box paperback/ebook.  To buy a copy, take a look at the web site, TravellinginaBox.com 

Insurance in the Age of Steam

I was reminded by someone at work, today, just how easy life has become with the internet.

“Oh, my car insurance just ran out,” she said. “I’d better renew it.”

She went online and five minutes later she was done. Easy.

I recalled the time, a few years back, in the eighties. Eek, that was thirty-odd years ago! Hard to believe.

We were camping. We had chosen a site miles from anywhere, up in the mountains behind Harlech, in North Wales. It was raining. Some things don’t change.

“The car tax runs out at the end of the week,” I said, looking at the disc on car windscreen. There was little else to look at. Beyond the windscreen there was mist. We were sitting in the car because we needed a change from lying in the tent; letting the oxygen run down to our feet for a change.

“Is it a problem?” said Sarah.

“Nah, we’ll be home in a few days. There’s no need to—”

And I stopped. We always renewed our MOT and car insurance a couple of weeks ahead of the car tax to be on the safe side. You can’t get a tax disc unless you have MOT and insurance, and in those days we didn’t have anywhere to park off-street. I’d been caught out once before, incurring fines and points and humiliation even though I’d been honest and never driven the car.

I rummaged through the glove box and, sure enough, our insurance expired a few days before we’d come away.

We had to renew it.

These were the days before mobile phones, never mind internet. We set out on foot to the nearest phone box, about four miles away. At least we knew where it was; we’d used it on one of the many occasions that we’d broken down in this valley.

Did I mention, it was raining?

I suppose we could have waited until it stopped, but we’d been there, soaking up rain, for the best part of a week and it had shown no inclination to stop up to now. Also, it was Friday afternoon. Insurance companies closed for the weekend in the good old days.

So yes, we walked, in our not-very-waterproof waterproofs, and we got wet.

You can fit two people in a phone box. It’s cosy, but on a wet Welsh afternoon, cosy is good.

This was a phone box with two buttons, A and B, marked in big white letters. I didn’t understand the principle then. I’m glad I don’t have to understand it now. Whichever order you chose to press the buttons the general idea was that you pumped prodigious quantities of silver into the heavy black box and you got to talk for about thirty seconds before the phone started beeping at you with insatiable hunger for more.

“Hello, XYZ Insurance here.”

“Oh, hi. My name’s—”

Beep beep beep.

Insert cash. Press button A. (or B?)

“Yeah, my name's Mike Wood and I need to—”

Beep beep beep.

It is a painful process. We fed the beast and watched our supply of change dwindle. We were put on hold. We were cut off. We dialled again and had to wade through the formalities of name, reason for calling, redirect, beep beep beep, several more times. The inside of the box got hot and the glass steamed up. Hearing was difficult with the rain hammering on the glass. The wind somehow managed to rock the whole structure, even though it was built from glass and girders and buried in concrete.

“Insurance? Would that be household insurance? Life insurance? Buildings ins—”

“Car insurance! I need to renew! I need to pay you money!”

We were down to our last ten pence. I was on the edge. My sanity was about to burst out of the phone box and make a break for it.

But I’d reached a sensible person.

“What’s the number of your call box?”

I read it out. Not easy because some of it was hidden under the graffiti. Who walks a gazillion miles with a can of spray paint to vandalise a phone box in the middle of nowhere?

“Okay, I’ll—”

Beep beep beep.

But yes, she rang us back. Ten minutes later and we were insured. Broke, but insured.

It would have been nice to drive back, but the car was with the tent, so we walked. In the rain. And the wind.

We live in an age of miracles and wonders. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

More camping and caravanning tales can be found in Travelling in a Box. And for a limited time only (until 14th June) you can get the e-book for just 99p (or 99cents in the US). To buy a copy, take a look at the new web site, TravellinginaBox.com