“Theatre of Dreams”

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Manchester, 4th October 2017

I’ve just spent three days and three nights stealth-camping near Old Trafford in the city of Manchester, the city I love and have dreams of owning a place there again some day.

This was an important visit because I thought it would do my soul good, I wanted to catch up with some special friends and, most important of all, to be wined and dined by a literary agent who adores our TV play.

So there we were, Jayne and I, in The Rivals Restaurant of the Royal Exchange Theatre, meeting the man who was prepared to train it up from London, buy us a posh lunch and put faces to our names.  It was great to meet him and even better to hear his glowing praise of our labours – “I still don’t believe this is a first draft,” he kept saying.

It was all so upbeat, positive and cheery as he talked about where he’d pitch the script and the fact that we already have star-named actors on-board and eager to play roles, and other star-names were mooted too.  The agent was also keen to discuss our “impressive” track-records and indeed our unusual story – that we’re still married, separated, but very good friends.

“It’s good that you can still be friends,” he said.

“Only because we can’t afford to get divorced,” I quipped.

“Fuck off,” Jayne shot back.

But seriously this was a dream for both of us to finally feel some positivity and feel it’s worth writing something because it’s at least in with a shout of being made one day.  Also, of course, that day would mean a cheque.  No reason to see an end to my homelessness for some time yet, these things can take forever or never, but at least my life feels like it has some meaning and my future some hope.  This business is so tough and cruel at times, so to be told you have immense talent is of course refreshing, and a welcome shot in the arm when I’ve been down with the dog and losing self-belief.

It also felt great to be told he wants more work from us, so I’m putting the final touches on my stage play and will send to him forthwith.  And then on to our next joint project – or rather projects, because we’ve loads of ideas.

It was loads of fun too in Manchester and I’m sure I’ll write more on this anon.  But suffice it to say for now that my brief return to a beautiful city and my day in the “Theatre of Dreams” made stealth-camping that little more cheerful.

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“Carry On Stealth-Camping”

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A Happy Tramp – 120 and still batting

Not the most flattering picture but I couldn’t give a shit, and anyway who does look their best when they’ve had a couple!?  It’s exactly 120 days since I’ve lived on the road and I make that 1/3 of my project completed, so why not raise a glass in celebration?

But while I’m still lucid I want to keep you abreast of developments.  As you already know, I’ve returned to my hometown of Nantwich where I’m planning a school reunion to fill in some vital gaps in my novel… and to fall in love.  The Ottermobile, which is only just about still gasping its way into life, is parked at my friend Gary’s house, and I want to thank him for being so kind – if you like he’s the Alan Bennett to my Mary Shepherd in The Lady in the Van, but I hope I’m not stuck there for fifteen years!  Anyway that’s where I’m laying my hat at the moment and that’s my launch-pad for the next leg of the journey…

The other day I bumped into a great old pal called Alfie, with whom I walked hundreds of miles back in the day, and fished for barbel in the River Severn.  More on him to follow, but we laughed and joked and talked and talked about all things life and all things writing, and at a visit to a cricket match he gave me another real burst of energy and nostalgia.  I recall a time we trekked happily through beautiful Montgomeryshire, so I think that will be my next destination.  I was so disappointed not to reach Edinburgh and Glasgow as planned, but I worry that my clapped-out van won’t get much further, and I certainly don’t have the money to fix it if it breaks down again.

Being forced to sign on was not my plan either, but needs must, and until I get some proper paid work my journeys have to be more local than John O’ Groats or even abroad.  In this business I’ve climbed the dizzy heights and sunk to the shitty lows; that’s how it is and that’s how the cookie crumbles, and as I’ve said before we are all just one small step away, so watch out and get the beers in while the sun shines.

At times like this it would be very easy to allow the dog back in, but with the help of family, friends and loved-ones I’m refusing to open the door and shunning the “orange” from my mind (see booze and depression).  I’m immersed in my writing and I’m determined to rebuild.  The other day I finished a script in collaboration and am happy to say an agent is taking it on.  It’s a start.

In 1990 when I studied for my Masters Degree I was fortunate enough to meet Alan Bennett, who talked about The Lady in the Van and also about the lot of the struggling writer.  “Keep going,” I recall was his advice, and I still intend to heed it.  What else can you do but bat on?  What else can I do but carry on stealth-camping?  Cheers!

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Nantwich v Didsbury – Nantwich Cricket Ground, September 2017

“What to Cook What not to Cook”

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I’m feeling very happy today, even despite my growing unkempt white hair and increasing resemblance to Andy Warhol.  I’m happy not least because the number of my followers has risen, so here’s to my “fifteen minutes of fame” in cyberspace.  But really I want to talk about survival, and more specifically survival and diet off-grid.  Yesterday I dipped my toe into romantic fiction in terms of dinner a deux.  I enjoyed getting my feet wet and soaked up the readers’ response, but it got me thinking about how, or more pertinently, what I’ve been eating in order to survive life on the road.

But first I’ll set the table as it were; I’d travelled north from Staithes to Saltburn, where I planned to stealth-camp for at least two nights and catch up on the football.  Ah football, not palatable to everybody but essential to my diet – that beautiful game played by twenty-two professionals and watched by millions of expert consumers and critics.  When I arrived on the prom I was lucky enough to get a place, free of charge, with a fantastic view and a stone’s throw from a pub showing Sky Sports.

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Saltburn Funicular Railway

Saltburn is a lovely little place and I liked the town and the charming way it doesn’t pretend.  In general the people were friendly and well-heeled, and I enjoyed listening to their kind of Geordie-cum-Teesside accent – “the Saltburn Vernacular” if you pardon the pun.  I took a ride on the famous railway, reading up on its history and hydraulic mechanism, then a long walk down the clean sands towards Marske while hoping to make a valuable discovery or find a lucky stripy stone.  But it was a Saturday and I’d worked up a thirst for beer and football, so I trekked back to The Marine pub on the prom.  I had a really nice time there, got talking to the locals (stories to follow in later posts) and drank good beer while watching Stoke beat Arsenal.  What more could a man want, except for a good dinner?  So, what to cook what not to cook (mmm… might work that up into a pitch for ITV)?

I prefer to eat as much fresh food as possible and avoid tins.  But this isn’t always practical or indeed affordable, so I always have a stock of tins, along with dry noodles, rice and pasta.  When I embarked on this journey all those months ago, my friend Kim put together a hamper for me, and I suggested Heinz Big Soups, which I remembered from childhood as living up to their name or “doing what they said on the tin.”

I’m sorry to say though, that today I’m somewhat disappointed; what used to be chunky pieces of chicken and veg are now etiolated morsels of not much… except in a bigger tin.  “Go big or go hungry,” runs the slogan, well frankly I’d rather the latter, or more likely reach for the dry noodles.

As I say, I do as much cooking from fresh as possible and get my five a day, and while I’m no Gordon Ramsay (thank God, the man always looks like he forgot to put the turkey in) I like to think I do OK.  Especially with curries, which are my signature dishes as I learned a while back how to do them properly.  Like my life I like them spicy, so I try to make sure the rack is full.  If not, however, or if I’m stealth-camping somewhere not conducive to a four-ring gas operation, I fall back on a tin.  Which leads me to a valuable discovery I did make…

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This is going to read like a bare-faced plug for the brand but I couldn’t give a shit.  I’m a firm believer in giving credit where it’s due, and with Asda’s Chicken Jalfrezi I find it “suits the palate of the consummate curry lover.”  “At just £1 and enough to serve two, its authentic blend of spices in a rich sauce containing bigger-than-bitesize chunks of chicken, it’s a canful of nutritious value that’ll keep you going all day.”  I should add “not in the toilet sense.”

To make a serious point, even when you’re hard-up, on the road and off the grid, you need to eat as well as possible, and you have to stay strong lest you’re attacked by a couple of fuckwits on Tyneside.  In short, you have to survive.  A camp of vanners marches on its stomach, as it were.  But to make a purely cynical point, if Asda are happy to sponsor this advert for its Chicken Jalfrezi, I’m happy to give it its fifteen minutes of fame or else “go hungry”.

Anyway, if I survive this day I will write up the collection of stories I found in The Marine.  One or two of them are delicious.

Fortune Favours the Bold

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The Otter’s Tipple – Whitby

I’m turning back the clock from my bout of thuggery on Tyneside to my one-day stop in Whitby, where I was pleased to get an eponymous pint of Otter.  My welcome wasn’t entirely warm, however; parking was a pain and I had to risk a ‘coaches only’ section, where an officious car park attendant looked at me like she’d clocked a slug on her kitchen worktop.  After I’d squeezed in elsewhere and paid my dues, one of her colleagues confided that the woman is notorious for her anger and you wouldn’t think she used to work for the Samaritans.

“I can only wonder what was the mortality-rate,” I quipped.

I do like Whitby, it holds happy memories that I wanted to chart in my novel.  Today the sun was shining and I relished a long walk over the sands then a climb up to the Abbey for a personal slice of Stoker, who I look up to as a traveller and author.  Then among the jet shops, Steampunk regalia and fairground buzz I reminisced.

Jayne and I came to Whitby often, once with my son Dom when we sailed on a boat.  One time though we had our fortunes told, for a laugh as much as anything, given my scepticism of clairvoyance.  Reading our palms, the lady said that Jayne drove a blue and silver sports car.  True, though I suspected she’d seen us drive in.  She said I’d never find a truer friend than Jayne.  Probably true.  And she read that my father was ill but was being well cared-for and would be OK.  Mostly true except two months later he was dead.

I shouldn’t mock.  Some people put great store in such things, whereas I believe in chance.  Like it was chance that determined I’d be attacked in my van…

I’ve had a number of welcome responses to Friday’s diary (The Night I Was Attacked) most from people who were obviously concerned.  It was great to know that people cared about me, and even better that my kids and other loved-ones were among the well-wishers.  One very loved-one asked “Why the hell are you putting yourself through this shit?”  It’s a very simple, very fair and very valid question and one I’ve asked myself many times since the start of this project.

I’m a writer.  I can’t do anything else.  Some say I can’t even do that!  But that’s my chosen field, the profession for which I trained for years, my calling from which I can’t run.  And if I’m not employed or indeed employable given my age and mental health (see Don’t Rain on My Parade) I can’t just do nothing but wait for the phone to never ring.  I’ve got to get out in search of story, in search of some things and some people to write about.  I also have to get through each day, ideally without harm or prejudice, and live with the little that chance has given me.

But although the question is valid, it’s valid also to flip it:  Why the hell do I put myself through this shit?  Or, Why the hell have I been put through this shit?  Is it fate?  Is it the cards I was dealt?  Or just chance and that’s just the way the stick of rock crumbles?  Whatever it is and whatever life throws at you, you have to fight back, you must be brave.  My Latin’s a bit rusty shall we say, but I think it’s audentes fortuna iuvat – fortune favours the bold.  Sometimes though, we’re emboldened with the help of others.

Like the otter is making a comeback, in part with the help, support and effort of humankind, I will make mine, either on my own or:

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The Night I Was Attacked

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Skipton Castle taken some weeks ago

The photo isn’t part of the story, but it’s pertinent in terms of my being an Englishman and my Ottermobile my castle.  And when his castle is attacked, the Englishman will defend it.  Which is what happened to this Englishman the other night…

I’d travelled north via Teesside and Tyneside and needed a break as tiredness can kill.  Before hitting the A193 coast road I found a countryside lay-by – not much around but a couple of farms.  Wasn’t the most picturesque I’d ever chosen, it was very darkened by tall hedges, but it would do.  It was a narrow lane and I was a little worried lest a heavy farm vehicle needed to get past.  But it would do.  I kept telling myself that.  I’d come to rely on intuition with all things stealth-camping, and this time intuitively I felt something amiss, so was not altogether relaxed.  I should’ve listened to intuition…

Just as I was prepping my bed and drawing curtains etc, a car’s headlights lit the gloom.  Nothing odd about that, except that the driver seemed to take an exceptional interest.  As he crept by and disappeared up the lane behind me, I thought that was that, and resumed my ablutions.

About five minutes later, another car, this time behind me, but as it passed I realised it was the same car, an Audi I think, and I could pick out that there was more than one passenger within.  Again I thought, I hoped, that was that… except it soon returned the other way, and this time there was the obligatory peeping of the horn.  It’s a joke I’d heard many times and usually bored me, but something nagged me.

Taking the precaution of leaving on my shorts and T-shirt, I eventually bedded down in my mummy bag.  Nothing more happened for maybe half an hour, and as the moments ticked by, my mind and body allowed themselves to relax and I must’ve drifted into an uneasy slumber.

God knows how long later, I was woken by a violent rocking of the van, hands thumping against my windows and much shouting and laughter.  It’s not easy to get out of a sleeping bag quickly, but I knew I had to.

“Fuck off!” I shouted.

“Fuck off!” came the mocking reply.

Shaking with fear, I pulled back a curtain and could pick out the faces of two young men, maybe twenty years old, grinning back at me.

“I’ll call the police!” I said.

“I’ll call the police!” came the mimicry.

Realising the law posed no deterrent, I tried reason.  Winding the window down an inch, I said “Look lads, I’m homeless, I’m just trying to get some kip.  Fuck off, yea?”

“You fucking cut me up!” one of them proclaimed.

“No I didn’t!  When?”

“Back there.  You coulda killed me and me girlfriend!”

In retrospect I would know this was absurd.  My Ottermobile can only do 50 and I can’t remember overtaking a single vehicle, let alone cutting someone up, especially a car as powerful as his.  But in the heat and the ludicrousness of the situation I could only deny his claim.  And as he continued to remonstrate, the other man chipping in his support, I knew this wasn’t going away.

Anger boiling now, I struggled into my boots and prepared to disembark.  “He’s getting out!” I heard the smaller man say.

“Good!” said the other.  So now I knew this would be tricky.  Somehow though, through a mixture of anger and fear, I managed to collect some thought – opening the side-door would give them an in, whereas the driver’s door would mean they’d have to move back, giving me vital room to manoeuvre.

As I emerged, fearing a beating, I quickly realised the smaller one was disarmed to see I’m a big bloke.  Knowing I had to seize the advantage, I sent him backwards and to the ground with a violent shove.  But I wasn’t quick enough for the other one and received a smack on the nose.  As I reeled back into the side of the van, I now saw the two girls in the back seat of the car, grinning spectators at the ringside, and knew this was the sport of impressing the lasses.

But I wasn’t prepared to go down.  As the smaller man was now on his feet and coming at me, I swung out at the bigger one and cracked him on the jaw.  This caused the smaller one to retreat again, allowing me to grab the crowbar I keep in the foot-well.  Brandishing this, I said “Come again and you get this!”

“Fuck off!” said the bigger man.

I would later wonder where this came from, but quite honestly I went a bit mad, flailing the bar at the dark air between us, lashing out and not caring if it cracked a skull or two.”He’s fucking off his head!” I heard one of the girls say, “Leave it Tize!” or some such monicker.

“Alright mate!” said the smaller man.  Without a word, the bigger man gave me a sign that it was over and retreated to his Audi.  And seconds later they’d gone, and it was over.  Or was it?

Bewildered at what just happened, panting and shaking like a dog passing the turd of its lifetime, I put the bar down and climbed back into the van.  Never more did I need a drink, but the Ottermobile was dry.  A coffee then?  But my hands were too shaky to pour from my water bottle.  Making sure the doors were locked, I opened all my curtains and got fully-dressed, knowing sleep was now impossible lest they came back.  Would they come back?  Would they return with their mates instead of girlfriends?  With their brothers, their fathers?  All this was churning around my head.  Would I call the police?  Did I want the attention?  I’m a vagrant, a traveller and stealth-camper, I’ve got enough problems getting through each day, did I need more?

And so I just sat, smoking chains of my last tobacco, finally managing to make coffee, going over and over the events, dabbing the cut over the eye with cotton wool.  The whole thing must’ve lasted maybe two minutes, but though I’m not one for cliche and hyperbole, it felt like a lot longer.  And why did it happen?  What did I do to deserve it?  I’m just a normal bloke down on his luck, wanting a quiet life, a quiet night’s kip.  Why pick on me?  Because I’m vulnerable, a guy on his own, in a country lane conducive to a punch-up?  And could this have been worse?  What if they too were armed?  With a knife?  A gun?  Had I come close to serious injury or even death?  What if I’d cracked them with the crowbar, injured or killed them?  What if I ended up in prison?

“Something needs to happen,” Podge said all those weeks ago, and we talked about it, knowing this kind of thing was what was meant.  This kind of thing that I always expected, feared, but hoped would never happen.  Now it had.

And where did my anger and violence come from?  I’m not a violent man, never have been, so why was I suddenly brandishing a lethal weapon?  Why did I even have a crowbar to begin with?  Was this some deep psychological flaw?  Am I really a thug?  Could I live with that horrible thought?  Why do I hate myself?

But of course all this is not rational.  As the hours and days have ticked by following this incident, and as the cut over my eye has scabbed, I’ve been more balanced in my view.  It was down to chance.  The young men were trying to impress their lasses, it was nothing personal, I just happened to be there, and seen as a bit of sport in a boring rural arena.  The big one had got his punch in and would brag about it to his mates.  Perhaps they both got laid that night as a trophy for their valour.  Perhaps one day I will laugh about the whole thing?  Perhaps I’ll embellish the tale, telling friends there were half a dozen of them?  Maybe even ten of the fuckers?

I probably won’t, because it was an episode I don’t want to see a repeat of, an episode that left me thoroughly depressed, seeing orange rather than seeing stars.  And it left me knowing the real reason for my paroxysm of violence:

I’m fed up of the world dishing its shit.  If I’m sickened by the injustice and the affront to liberty, there will inevitably come a time when I say enough is enough.  Whatever is my “castle”, be it a mansion, a posh apartment in Salford Quays, a clapped-out van with dodgy bearings, a bundle of rags in a shop doorway, I have every right to defend it.  And finally I’m left with the realisation that though in the scheme of things I have nothing, I will do everything to keep it.

Ups and Downs

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Bouncy Castle – Sea-front, Filey

I mentioned my new friend Trevor.  I was just about to pay for parking at Flamborough Head when he hailed me from his lovely V-Dub and gave me an overnight ticket as he was about to leave.  We got chatting about all things campervanning and life and he told me he and his partner Karen were from Worksop.  He used to be a screw (can’t remember which prison) then took early retirement, went back on the plumbing tools for a while and finished up in catering.  I hope he wouldn’t mind me saying he looked like he’d eaten a few of the pies.

But he was a great character, talking a mile-a-minute, full of joie de vivre and passion for travel.  He showed me pics of some of the stealth-camping hot-spots.  “Sorry to keep you,” he kept saying, then kept me.  But after the shit day I’d had, his kindness, friendliness and wit were breaths of sea air.  I’d found solace in a kindred spirit and one I know I’ll keep in touch with.

Nevertheless I still woke up next morning feeling down, so had a long walk on Bempton Cliffs, watching gannets soaring up and dive-bombing down in their avian cod war, then drove up the coast in search of more friendly faces.

My real friend Gaz had put me in touch with an old Grammar School mate called Rachel and I’d seen that she and her husband Stuart had started following my blog.  He said they were up in Filey, running a seafront mini-fairground, so that’s where I headed, hoping my bearings both mechanical and cerebral were in order.  I parked up, walked down the Ravine and spotted the bright yellow bouncy castle, which I later learned is visible with the naked eye from Bempton (on a clear day, which this was).

Unsung and overlooked Filey has a beautiful coastline with grand Victorian villas and bungalows nestled into its cliffs; I’d been here before in happier times and was hoping for cheer this time around.  Even though I hadn’t seen her for 38 years I spotted and recognised Rachel immediately, approached her, and asked how much for a bounce.

“It’s you!” she proclaimed.  After exchanging hugs and how d’you dos, we chatted about old times and I recalled that her tribe were legends, having appeared on TVs Ask The Family with Robert Robinson.  Yes her family were world-famous at Nantwich & Acton Grammar School.  She asked if I were staying over and though I’d planned to get up to Whitby, the offer of dinner, wine, music and chat was too good to turn down.

After a pint at the Cobble Bar then a very long walk down the beach in the sun, I drove to Rachel and Stuart’s place, a lovely rural semi.  Getting reacquainted with Rach and meeting her husband was a pleasure, and their story of how they got together was the stuff of brilliant romance.  Frankly I won’t waste it on this blog, but to summarise, the two of them fell in love notionally before they’d even met, then realised it on a long haul flight.

As we shared stories of travel and life, filling in the 38 years since school, it transpired there were lots of connections; both Rach and Stuart knew my brother Tez and there were mutual friends in Big Steve, Wakey and many others.  To my shame it was clear that Rachel is much better at keeping in touch with old friends than I am.

Two other things struck me that night, a) though I’m not a doggy person, I made friends with their ten-year-old pooch called Poppy, who also took a shine to me, b) how I miss having a proper home and garden, and c) how lonely I’d been.  It was such a pleasure to spend time with a wonderful couple so deeply in love, and enjoy a delicious meal in the power-house which is their state-of-the-art kitchen… it even had something called an Amazon Dot called Alexa, who would play any music you told her to, gave a weather report, up-do-date news, and if you went away for a week no doubt she’d feed the fish and water the begonias.

But of course all good things come to an end and, seeing they were knackered after a hard (yet no doubt lucrative) day at work, I retired back to the Ottermobile which I’d “stealth-camped” in their ample garden.  It was a fabulous night, so welcome after a miserable couple of days, and I bedded down feeling up – people are so kind and just when you need them, there they are.  Just like Rachel and Stuart’s bouncy castle, I am up then I am down.  As I said to a barmaid in York the other day:

When I am up I am up

And when I am down I am down

And when I am only half-way up…  ah you get the picture.

The Story of Losing One’s Bearings

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The morning after the wheel-bearing fiasco I woke up early and waited for the grease monkey.  His name was Alan, a thick-set character who, like all mechanics, wasn’t inclined to start with good news.  “Problem is getting the bearings for this model,” he said, gloomily.  But after a nifty phone call he said he could get them by 2.30 and have me back on the road “while 5.”  This was good news, though I knew it would cost me and I’d have to go to the Bank of Podge.  Anyway I hastily planned a day in Bridlington to kill time and write.

After a hearty breakfast in a town centre cafe I enjoyed a five-mile walk down the prom tiddley-om-pom-pom then felt I deserved a pint.  Many years ago Jayne switched on the Christmas lights here and I remembered it well.  I chose the Harbour Tavern where I was delighted to get a pint of bitter for £1.90.  38 bob!  You could’ve knocked me down with a feather.  Cheap round here, I thought.

The bar was quiet at first; just an old couple sipping drinks in complete and bored silence, a retired gent with a good head of hair moaning to his friend about a non-regular who scooped the jackpot on the machine.  “Twice!” he added, more than once.  And a jovial barmaid grumbling to a vaping barfly about her dog; “He’s a little shit,” she said.  And finally the most amazingly hilarious mullet I’ve ever seen.  Oh how I laughed to myself… until I realised I’ve got one!

As the bar filled up I thought I’d chance my arm with one of the locals over a cigarette outside – a retired fisherman called Tom, a wiry old gent with forearms like Popeye, who told me his tale that ended in tragedy.  He’d worked at sea, fishing for cod, haddock, lobster and crab, all his life and his sons followed.  Up at 2 and braving the tides for twelve hours was tough work with never any guarantee of a good catch.  One night a storm brewed and the twenty-foot waves engulfed his coble, causing one of his sons to slip.  Desperately, Tom grabbed his hand but couldn’t hang on, so he watched helplessly as his son slid away and got taken by Neptune.  Bereft, Tom thought he could carry on till retirement, but after a few more trips he realised he’d have to call it a day, too powerful was the trauma.  His remaining sons still fish and every time they go out, Tom can’t sleep, till he knows they’re safely ashore.

I wondered how many matelots have similar tales of woe, and frankly I marvelled at how they do it.  I pictured myself on a boat, slipping and sliding on deck in all weathers, and shuddered, knowing I’m not man enough for it.  Like coal mining it’s one of those jobs people do, as we consumers take their rewards for granted.  I felt ashamed at how many times my computer has crashed and I term it a peril of the job of writing.  As my dad might’ve said, we don’t know we’re born.

To clear my head of sadness I took another brisk walk until Alan called to say the bearings were replaced.  As I headed for the garage, impressed with their turbo performance, I thought all was not so bad.  I was expecting (stupidly) a bill of about thirty quid, then nearly dropped dead to be told it was over three times that!  I think I said the word bollocks out loud, and added it wasn’t so cheap around these parts after all.

One of those things I guess.  At least I had my home back, and my life.  But I still couldn’t help feeling down as I pulled up next to Flamborough Lighthouse.  Yes this time there was a trigger as my head filled with orange and I broke down and wept.

These are the times you feel the loneliest, and that the project is utterly pointless or even impossible to complete.  It wasn’t so much the Ottermobile as me who’d lost his bearings.  But what can you do but carry on?  What can possibly go wrong now?  At least I did find some solace in a kind new friend and fellow-vanner called Trevor from Worksop (more on this next time) but you can’t vent your anger on a new friend, can you?  So I just had to get my head down and forget about the whole thing, cry myself to sleep.

Trouble was, the bloody lighthouse kept flashing!  If they had any consideration for travellers they’d switch it off at night-time.  I managed a chuckle as I thought that one up, but knew that Sailor Tom wouldn’t.