I remember a simpler time, before I ever clapped eyes on the banged up Ford Transit van that was to become my home, when the words ‘grey water’ and ‘long wheelbase’ meant nothing to me. And nothing ever leaked. And bits of wooden cladding didn’t give up and fall off the walls with a shrug.
Simpler, yes. Fulfilling? Not so much. I was 25, living in Bedford, and thought a packet of Flame Grilled Steak McCoys and a Yorkie bar constituted dinner. Rent was crippling. And the nearest I came to a sense of adventure was occasionally upsetting some swans as I cycled by along the embankment.
I was mildly unhappy. But the real push came from my partner’s YouTube algorithm. Miles’ recommendations were a hazy loop of climbing videos. Carabiner-wielding types slung mattresses in the back of their vans, pulled up at Yosemite’s Dawn Wall at daybreak, and rolled from Sprinter to summit all while somehow making not showering look aspirational.
World-class climber Alex Honnold has a lot to answer for.
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We bought a cheap van with an “is that rattling a bit? no surely not” engine from a grey dealership in Bedford. We had no building experience. Unless you count Ikea flatpack marathons punctuated with outbursts of, “IT’S SCREW 5B, IT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE SCREW 5A”. Which you really shouldn’t.
After muddling through the installation (who needs a toilet anyway), we set off, filled with the kind of delusion that inspires people to buy derelict castles in rural France, or start microbreweries in their shed.
The learning curve was steep. And immediate.
It’s hard to explain how luxurious life in a flat is until you swap it for living in a metal box from the year 2018. Instead of flicking on a tap, now water had to be carefully rationed, grey water disposed of, tanks topped up when they ran low.
A leaky roof or knock on the door in the middle of the night— the police, a welfare check — were huge blows. But even small wins felt like huge highs
We streamlined our lives. We were stealth camping (arriving on residential streets late and night and leaving early so as not to be a nuisance), so all of our possessions had to be strapped down twice a day. Which is a surefire way to turn anyone into a minimalist.
There was an upside to struggling so hard just to do the most basic of tasks, and that was how great small wins felt. True, a leaky roof or knock on the door in the middle of the night— the police, a welfare check—were huge blows. But playing cards on a sunny evening with the van doors thrown wide open gave us such a high.
We learnt about a whole community of transient vehicle-dwellers, fleetingly living in the same place. Like the construction worker who we slept side-by-side in a layby with, or Dave, the film crew guy, who jump-started our van just outside of Enfield and then split his beers with us.
Camaraderie was not something we expected. In fact, the comment we heard the most before leaving was, “you’ll kill each other, surely?” Before the van, our idea of teamwork had been limited to shared custody of house plants. Now, it felt like we’d been shipwrecked together. You learn what support and teamwork really mean after a day that involves your period arriving—like the stomping of a hundred steel toe cap boots on your back—a leak springing from the roof, and the door alarm breaking. While you’re trying to stealth camp. In December.
After two years of bouncing around London streets, campsites in Suffolk where we woke to chickens plucking at our wheels, and the Cornish coast where our stolen deckchair became a campsite-wide whodunnit, we returned to full time jobs and a flat in London.
We brought a lot of hard won lessons with us; fewer possessions—a scatter cushion cull was called for —, the mood-boosting effect of getting outside first thing in the day, and how to take a three-minute shower (cold water and a single song playlist are key). But mostly, a newfound confidence that together we’re capable of difficult things. Difficult things, and the uncanny ability to find a 24-hour car park.
It feels bittersweet, like we’ve given up on this alternative way of living. But it’s not forever. And we do now have a bathtub to feel guilty in, which really helps.
