A Van of One's Own

by Biddy Wells

  There seems to be a funny little argument that rumbles along. Some people love Spain and dislike Portugal, while other people I’ve met along the way take the opposite view. Maybe I, too, am indulging in this fruitless game of comparison. I can’t help comparing my current experience with my time in Portugal, which seems a softer, sweeter, kinder country. Spain is vast and I hope I will get the opportunity to explore other parts of it one day, and maybe find more fondness for it. For now, though, I find myself missing the place where I felt at home.

  I know that I cannot stop my mind performing its routine of grumbling, judging, comparing, nor do I need to – it’s a waste of energy to try. All I can do is watch it happening, and as I do this, the thoughts lose their power over me. Just as I notice a thought, it changes shape, dissolves. I look back to that day when I sat in the morning sun at the campsite in France, at the very start of my journey. I remember writing about the endlessly chattering critical voice in my head. I recall how I wanted to be free from judgements. In the past I have berated myself for being too negative, too critical, not sufficiently Zen about everything. What has changed is that I now see the critical voice as distinct from me. I can listen to it, ignore, endure or enjoy it, because I know I am not it. There are unhelpful, unloving thoughts and uncomfortable feelings, but they are temporary – passing, like clouds – and beneath them is me: unshakable, stable, reliable. I am cultivating a deeper stillness which is hard to describe; it’s as if I have gone from the surface of myself to the inner core.

  Yet without a critical faculty, what would it be like to write a journal? Without it there would be no contrast, no dynamic and no journey. I see that my critical faculty is something I can use to look at life, rather than an impediment that defines me and causes me to feel discontent, or even shame. It’s about using the facility of the mind rather than being hostage to it. I have skills, like discernment, that I can use whilst remaining rooted in an acceptance of how things are at any given moment. There’s no conflict.

  *

  I am invited to dinner at the palatial caravan and awning of my neighbours, the English couple who have formed a little haven with other Brits. It’s really kind of them to include me, whether or not it is just to make up the numbers, and I go along with an open heart and a bottle of cava. There are eight of us altogether: three couples, a widower and me. The food is tasty and the discussion lively. During the second half of the evening there is much agreement on the issue of immigration in the UK, our homeland, which, I am again told, has ‘gone to the dogs.’ I don’t have much to say, but I decide to stand up for the plight of displaced people and families fleeing from war and persecution.

  I suggest, as I did months ago to the dour Dutchman, that in the shoes of these unfortunate, poor and largely innocent human beings, we might also choose to risk our lives and flee to what looks like a better place and a more viable future. There is a heavy silence during which everyone stares at me as if I have just said that I am a big fan of acts of terrorism. Looking disappointed, they clear their throats or shake their heads, and move on to another topic. For the remainder of the evening, the conversation continues between the four men, who discuss the pros and cons of various military tanks. All of them have experience with this sort of weaponry, and some have favourite models: excellence in engineering vies for position with the best capacity to destroy things. I am very quiet during this debate, having nothing to contribute and realising just how far I have strayed from my comfort zone. The other women sit in silent attendance, occasionally raising their eyes to the tented ceiling as if to say, ‘Oh, these boys and their toys!’

  David is due to arrive in eleven days. Can I make it? I guess I have to. How strange it is to be wishing for the days to pass quickly in ‘paradise’. I guess the whole planet was once a paradise. Perhaps it still is, but we don’t say that, because paradise has to look or feel a certain way. It’s a matter of perception, or preference. I am glad the residents here love it. The more joy and love they experience, the better for everyone. I suddenly realise that coming here has done a job for me: it has made me really keen to leave. I had to come here to want to go back home.

  *

  Last night, I had my recurring dream about trying to catch a train. I know it’s a common one, but this time, it felt overwhelmingly powerful and real. First I had to clear my desk, a huge oak-lidded thing in a classroom, because it was the very last day of school – not just for the summer, but for ever. Why had I not known this? I had to pack up a lot of stuff and carry it to the station. When I got on the train, I realised I had to buy a ticket; so, taking two pounds and leaving all my belongings in the carriage, I ran to the ticket office. The price of the ticket was actually three pounds and seventy pence! How could I get to the train to get more coins and back to the ticket office in time to buy my ticket, before the train pulled away with my books and bags on board? I woke up feeling genuinely panicked about the train leaving without me.

  I realised that every time I have this dream, which has happened many, many times, it’s always a train taking me home – never to some outing or adventure. Perhaps that’s why it feels so frustrating: I just need to get back home. After this particular incarnation of the train dream, I thought: ‘It’s obvious! I am anxious about getting back to Wales.’ Then it occurred to me that maybe the dream contained something deeper. It was the end of school: a major period of learning. My old life was finished, and I had learned all I could. It was about finding my way home: home to the safe haven that I had longed for, always. This is the sanctuary – the peace that I now know is my own being.

  I think about The Wizard Of Oz. Dorothy wore the magic ruby slippers, so she had always had the means to get home, if only she had known how to use them. After she realises that ‘there’s no place like home,’ she is shown how to click her heels together, which does the trick.

  *

  I might have run out of steam, but I have not run out of road. There’s still a long way to travel, unless I want to take up permanent residence here. I am completely out of the habit of driving, but I get Myfanwy ready for the next part of my journey. I am finally leaving the strange community that has been my uncomfortable home for three exceptionally long weeks. Saying goodbye to Earnie and Timmy involved lots of hugging, and it was sad for all of us, I think. Myfanwy started first time and off we went up the winding road. For the first time in what seemed like months, I fed Tanya the coordinates of an official parkup for campervans. It looked very pleasant in my aires guidebook. I felt a tingle of excitement: I was back on the road. I loved planning a route and ending up at an aire, where I could stay for free (or very cheaply) and be anonymous. Perhaps I would take a look around the village on foot, find a bar, have a beer and feel free again.

  After a while, we had negotiated the outskirts of a city and were tootling along a quiet country road, getting close to the place where we would stay for the night. Tanya announced that we had reached our destination. Only we hadn’t. There was no aire, no sign; nothing but farmland. We explored the area several times in huge circles and tried different versions of the GPS coordinates, but it was no good. I pulled into a lay-by and just sat there. What was I going to do? I was definitely not going to drive back to ‘paradise’. But where could I stay? I had to be at the airport first thing next morning to meet David. I wanted somewhere close by and totally safe. I have learned to use my instinct: if it feels safe, it probably is. But, more importantly, if I don’t feel safe, I can’t relax, and it only takes one scaremongering thought to queer the pitch. It would be foolish and somewhat arrogant to ignore what seasoned travellers and locals had told me about some areas of southern Spain being less than ideal for free campers, especially British ones. My gut feeling told me to be careful in this rural area, which I barely knew.

  I sat for a while and then decided to ask for help. I had no choice but to trust in the invisible ‘something’ that I had almost forgotten about since my time in Portugal. I sat silently and felt the stress
subside as I asked for guidance, vowing that if I got clear instructions I would follow faithfully. After a few minutes, the name of a place came into my mind very clearly, even though I didn’t remember where I had heard it before, if indeed I had. I tapped it onto Tanya’s screen and she showed me the route: not too far, somewhere east of the airport. I didn’t have a mental picture of where I was, and all I could do now was follow Tanya’s spoken instructions. I knew I could not let my mind come in and divert me from the blind faith I had promised as my end of the deal.

  Eventually, we arrived at the small town with its unfamiliar name and drove along the narrow seaside road. We turned a corner, continued along, and then, to my great delight, I saw half a dozen campervans parked alongside some grassland. This was all I had hoped for: a group of travellers like me staying somewhere quiet, pretty and safe. There’s something wonderful about free camping with other vans – it feels like home, like we belong there. We are just people sharing a space for a night or two, and, wherever we come from, whatever nationality, we share a love of freedom and nature, a respect for each other and a sense of equality and comradeship. Tucked between two large vans, I felt protected – part of a community.

  The place looked to be the dream of some ambitious developer who had run out of cash; there was a strange juxtaposition of upmarket, newly built houses and empty, unfinished roads. It was hard to tell how many of the dwellings were inhabited, and there were hardly any people about. I walked around in the evening sun and felt very grateful. It was good to see the sea, and there was a beautiful sunset.

  Next morning, I got to the airport early and waited for David’s plane to land. I could hardly wait – he was the one person I really wanted to see. I did cry a little bit – it was such a relief to be reunited and to feel safe and supported when I had lost my nerve and, I guess, my joy. Very quickly and easily I found myself forgetting the tribulations of the previous weeks. We planned to spend a few days at my last free camping spot before making the journey to Santander to board our ferry in six days’ time, with a couple of night stopovers. For a couple of days, we did the things we love to do when we are travelling: we walked along beaches, visited cafes where we chatted to the locals, played cards and Scrabble, talked and laughed.

  We had heard of a campsite a few hours north that boasted a health-giving spa, fed by natural, mineral-rich hot springs. Floating about in a steaming outdoor pool sounded like just the sort of relaxing treat that would make up for cold January nights and having extremely limited access to bathroom facilities. We left the coast and wound our way up into the mountains at the northern edge of Murcia. David drove and I made the most of sitting back and taking in the ever-changing view.

  This part of Spain is rich in natural beauty and cultural history, yet instead of exploring it, I had let fear get hold of me and lived, for three weeks, in a place I imagine is similar to any ex-pat compound, complete with high perimeter fence and a feeling of being somewhat isolated from the real world. Had I simply got stuck? I would love to think this was my last dance with fear, but that might be wishful thinking. Fear is always sneaking in almost unnoticed. It takes my hand, gently at first, and we whirl around together, gathering pace. I lose myself, and by the time I notice, it has me firmly in its grip, paralysing me.

  After everything I had learned about trusting life and living in the moment, I was still capable of letting my mind talk me into being cautious to the point of lunacy. The old programmes could still appear and start running my life. This was potentially disappointing. But the remedy was within my grasp. As soon as I noticed regret starting to goad me, I had a choice. I knew I could not waste another moment by berating myself for the time I had already wasted. Was it a waste anyway? Had I not learned or gained anything from my low patch? I had not run away. I had survived and handled it better than I might have in the past. Perhaps I had grown a little bit stronger.

  We arrived at the spa and found a spot between two campervans. Most of the people here were elderly and German or Dutch. They all had plush vans in pristine condition and looked as though they had settled in for the whole winter. Every concrete plot was occupied, so we had been wise to book ahead. The weather was getting colder now, but the pool was pleasantly warm. One night at the site was enough for us, and the next morning we made an early start. Somewhere north of Madrid we pulled into a mountain village and found a small restaurant for a late lunch. There was a roaring fire, which was a relief as the day had turned bitterly cold; and as we were walking back to the van, snow began to fall. Before long we were driving through flurries of snowflakes, which were starting to settle on the road. The snow got steadily heavier and, suddenly, we had to slow down as we approached the back of a long queue of stationary lorries and cars on the gently inclining motorway, now thickly covered.

  Snow ploughs were zooming along on the opposite carriageway, but on our side there was no sign of help, and all the lanes were blocked with vehicles. It didn’t look good. Time spent at a standstill when you need to be moving toward a ferry port can seem to go very slowly. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that, unlike some folks here, we had food and water on board, plus a loo and a bed. What was the worst that could happen? We surrendered to the fact that we might be here for a very long time, and then, suddenly, everything changed. A snow plough pushed past along the grass verge, and cars skidded about and set off in its wake. The lorries would have to wait for the next plough, and vans like ours spent a while trying to get a grip on the frozen slippery slope. I was impressed by the efficiency of the authorities in clearing the motorway, and I guessed that up there in the Picos they must be used to winter blizzards.

  Once we were moving along again, we started to focus on the night ahead. We had found a campsite south of Burgos and fed its coordinates to Tanya. After that, all we had to do was drive and be guided to a place where we could hook up to the mains and get our heater on. The camping guide mentioned that the site was next to a wine cave, which was also something to look forward to. Maybe we could stock up some local wines to take home. As night fell, so did the temperature. We passed through the small town of Aranda and followed Tanya’s familiar instructions. Leaving the main road far behind and weaving across the dark, deserted landscape, we arrived in a tiny hamlet of ancient, possibly abandoned dwellings, covered in thick snow and looking pretty in the beam of our headlights. This didn’t seem like a place that would have a campsite open in January – and it wasn’t. We’d been on a wild goose chase, on a cold, dark night, at the end of a long and arduous journey, and we began to feel slightly desperate. We just needed to eat and sleep. We retraced our tracks to Aranda and found a spot in an unromantic car park. After much-needed drinks and snacks in a bar we got into bed, fully clothed with all available blankets and a hot water bottle.

  We woke to a clear sky and a hard frost, with a three-hour drive ahead of us, which seemed a doddle after the previous day’s journey. However, our troubles were not over. After a while, we noticed that the sky up ahead had turned an ominous shade of charcoal. Once again we were driving straight into a blizzard. Just beyond Burgos, the police stopped us at a roundabout and directed us back into town, as the main road to the coast was impassable – and we resigned ourselves to the fact that we would not make our ferry.

  We waited in a side street near the centre of Burgos for the snow to stop. It looked as though the bad weather had set in for the day, but it stopped snowing after a few hours. We drove through a mixture of snow and slush to the same roundabout, where the same policeman ushered us along in the tracks of the snow plough. It was quite a hairy journey, but we just kept on going, slowly but steadily, through another protracted snow storm; hardly speaking, but hoping and praying that we could make it in time for our crossing after all. As we descended the last twenty miles, the sky suddenly cleared and the sun shone brightly over the vivid green of the coastal plain. We wondered if the winter wonderland had been a dream, but, glancing back, we could see the snow-covered mountains and b
lack sky.

  We had planned to arrive in Santander with hours to spare so that we could go to a big supermarket and buy all sorts of goodies to take home, but instead we had to settle for a dash into a corner shop. Amazingly relieved that, despite all that waiting around in sub-zero temperatures, we had made it and got onto the ferry in time to sail back across the sea to England, we stood on the deck, looking over the railings, watching the coast of northern Spain as it seemed to slip out of reach. I felt something tug inside me. ‘I’m going home after all my adventures. It’s all over,’ I said. David said nothing and squeezed my hand.

  During the evening, in the ship’s bar we met a man called Mark, who had spent many years travelling through Europe and North Africa. He now ran a business in Morocco and talked a lot about his experiences there. He also asked us about our travels, and I told him about some of my experiences. He laughed when we told him of our treacherous trip from Burgos: ‘You came over the top in this weather? Are you crazy?’ We – and Tanya, it seems – hadn’t known about the nice, relatively flat motorway that went round the mountains. We had taken the most difficult route. Mark asked me what it was like to travel alone. I told him that I’d loved the solitude and also enjoyed meeting people, but that I was surprised I’d met so few solo female travellers along the way.

  ‘Well, they’re trouble, aren’t they?’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Everyone gives them a wide berth ’cos they’re not to be trusted. I’ve had nothing but hassle from lone women.’

  It didn’t feel as though he was levelling these claims at me personally, but it shed some light on something that had puzzled me on my journey.