Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop

Don’t apologise! A lot of VLs blog about their journey, almost like an online diary to keep track, that’s all. It’s a great way to follow along with those you connect with.

I contemplate his theory. It would be nice to keep a record, keep track of where I go. But I know myself, and I’m more of a reader. Maybe I can keep my own online diary for myself.

Do you blog, Oliver?

His blog might shed light on exactly how this Van Lifers movement works and who he is.

Yes, my blog is oliverstravels.co.uk I mainly post pictures because I’m a photographer. Check it out if you have a mo.

I click the link. Wow. His pictures are truly breathtaking. Stunning snowscapes. And lush green fields. Black and white wedding portraits. I find his ‘About’ page and read his bio. I stop short when I see his profile picture. Oliver is jaw-droppingly handsome. One of those boy-next-door types who grows into his looks and suddenly becomes a heart-stopper. He has brown wavy locks, a trustworthy clear-eyed gaze, and his lips curve into a perfect sweet smile that conjures the idea of romance. Seeing the man behind the words, I feel less suspect about him, and more willing to talk, before I realise how shallow I’m being. While he doesn’t look like a serial killer, that doesn’t mean he isn’t!

Your photography is stunning.

My hands hover over the keyboard. Should I say more? Less? I am clueless with these sorts of interactions and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

Thank you. It keeps me on the road so I’m grateful for that.

I scroll further through his blog, trying to get a handle on where he is, how long he’s been doing this for. There’s not a lot of writing, like he said, it’s mainly photos. I can’t see any other information, no travel route, no other clues as to where he might be. So he must work as he goes, taking photographs for people before moving to the next place. While the idea of no fixed abode terrifies me, I can also see the romanticism in it. The absolute freedom.

Where are you now?

I’m only asking out of politeness. Not because Oliver is a bit of alright.

Ireland …

I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland. In this new strange life of mine, maybe I can go. Really, what’s stopping me from ditching the material possessions and living a simpler life, like all these Van Lifers are doing?

Oliver and I chat for a while longer about this and that before he tells me all about various camp sites where I can stay for next to nothing, stock up on cheap supplies and meet likeminded nomads. I make notes about the locations to research later.

He makes it all sound so easy, as if it’s as simple as readying the van and filling up with fuel.

When I finally sign off we agree to chat again soon and I give myself an imaginary pat on the back for being so social and open when it feels so alien.

After doing a few hours of research myself, Bristol seems like the most logical place to travel to first. It’s just far enough to blow the cobwebs out of Poppy, and not too far to turn back if I chicken out.

When my notice is up at Époque, I’ll pack and get the hell out of here and see where the breeze blows me.

Look at me, making friends and being spontaneous. I blithely ignore the shake in my hands by circling them around a nice steaming cup of passionflower tea, a blend of florals made specifically to calm nerves, promote calm, and induce sleep. Just the ticket for my spinning mind …

* * *

Before long my notice is up and it’s time to leave my job. My career. My safety net. I say my goodbyes at Époque, getting teary when I hug Sally. It’s impossible to imagine not waking with the birds and rushing around London in the morning, just like I’ve done for the last fifteen years. Or coming home after dinner service with heavy legs, and a dull throb in my head. Who will I be, if I’m not a sous-chef at Époque?

Suddenly I feel anchorless. Like those solid walls I built around me are caving in.

Back home, I begin to pack, knowing I’ve only got a few more weeks’ grace, as per our divorce stipulations. The divorce itself won’t settle for aeons, but we’d set out the terms and conditions, and as much as it hurts I will stand by what I promised. I’ll be out of London by April. Callum wanted me to move sooner, offering me a payout at settlement, but I held firm. Their little love nest will have to wait. I need these next few weeks to plan, to come to terms with whatever it is I’m going to do.

I brew a pot of comforting raspberry and thyme tea, hoping it will perk me up. While it steeps, I fire up the laptop and decide to email Oliver for advice.

Hi Oliver,

If one was to set out on a journey, where would I likely go? Are there certain routes for novices, or is it more of an organic thing? I’ve been toying up seriously with the idea of a pop-up tea van …

Thanks for your time.

Rosie

With that done, I sip my tea, and spend an age staring out the window at the relentless March rain. I should be enjoying this time, strolling through Covent Garden, wandering through Hyde Park, eating out at all those new restaurants that have cropped up over the years that I haven’t had a chance to try, but I don’t leave my flat, except to go to the local Marks and Spencer’s and stock up on ready-made meals that I eat half-heartedly.

I don’t have the inclination to cook for myself – it hardly seems worth it – and I realise this is probably the first time in my life that my appetite has waned. Food tastes bland, and I only hope this is a phase. Instead, I sit in front of the TV like a zombie, too disheartened to leave the flat for anything other than wine. I hear the echo of Callum’s recriminations: You’re just like your dad. I’m not. I’m just taking some me time.

I check my email and am surprised to find a response from Oliver already.

Hi Rosie,

It depends on where you want to go, and what your timeline is. The Hay Festival begins in May, and is one of the best, in terms of crowds and length of time. Ten days long, it tends to be a good money spinner for those starting their journey over the summer. If that suits you, you can stock up in Bristol and camp there beforehand, it’s close to the Welsh border.

It seems like a sign that he’s suggested the very same place I’d had my eye on.

That’s where a lot of the festival nomads meet and find travel partners, someone to journey along with on the open road. Worth thinking about. Then you can choose a route (check the attachment for ideas). Along the way you’ll find fairs, and markets and all sorts that tie into the festivals so there’s plenty of work to be had – or not, depending on what your motivations are.

If you have any other questions, shoot them over. But in the meantime, check out the attachment.

Oliver

I click on the attachment and find more information about Wales, and various travel routes depending on what you sell or what kind of journey you’re undertaking. There’s ones for those with a literary bent, itineraries for sporty types who love climbing mountains (nope) and one that grabs my attention: the foodie/festival route. I lose the next few hours imagining a brave new life, and wondering if I have the courage to live it.

When I stumble on a picture of a suspension bridge high above a tea-coloured Avon Gorge, I make a mental note to avoid it all costs … These nomads sure like to live on the edge. I’m risk averse, and picture myself instead picking wild flowers, and baking up a storm on flat, solid ground.

I take my tea and walk to the window. Rain lashes down and grey skies hover over me like a heavy sigh. I take it as a sign. There’s nothing for me here now, and the only bright spot in my life is Poppy, with her interminable pinkness. The thought makes me smile. It’s time to pack up my things, sell what I can, and donate the rest. I can’t take much with me, and that’s a freedom in itself. Luckily, I live a very uncluttered life, so it doesn’t take long to sort my belongings into piles of keep, sell, donate, or leave for Callum as per our agreement.

I’ll have to wash Poppy thoroughly once more, and make sure she’s all kitted out.

Hi Oliver,

Thank you for your advice. Bristol looks just the ticket. I checked out that link you sent, and I do really like the idea of following that set route like so many others do. At least I’ll know tentatively where I’m going and that’s enough for me.

Thanks so much,

Rosie

Chapter 5

Am I off to an unlucky start choosing April Fool’s day as the beginning of my journey? Fools rush in, right? With my forehead pressed against the living room window I watch as rain lashes down on poor Poppy. Her windscreen is frosty and opaque, the wipers half-mast like eyes closed for sleep. So much for a sunny-skied spring – although the weather does match my mood.

Drenched Poppy, copping bucket loads of rain, seems solemn somehow. I know it’s the first sign of madness having affection for an inanimate thing, but I feel an affinity with her, perhaps because she is finally going to ferry me away from here, hopefully onto better, brighter things.

In the time since this whirlwind happened, Callum hasn’t called or visited once. All our discussions have been handled through lawyers. Lawyers. Grave and dull men with no spark in their eyes. They handle our case, the two opposing sides, as succinctly as possible. There’s a sterility to it all, and I can’t help marvel that life can change so devastatingly fast.

He’s agreed to buy out my share of the apartment, which comes to almost nothing since we’re still paying the interest on the debt and not much else, and I gave myself until today to embark on my new adventure.

As I gaze around our once happy home, the same old feelings claw at me. How could he discard me so quickly, so easily, as if I were rubbish? I don’t want to be alone, to be unsocial, to push people away, but I struggle making friends because there was never the time or the inclination.

This loneliness is deafening.

Getting away will broaden my horizons, give me some much-needed life experience, and I’ll find my place in the world. I’m aware of my downfalls. That need to retreat usually trumps everything else, and I can’t let it.

Hefting the last box from the tiny little south London flat Callum and I have shared for the last seven years, my heart shrinks once more.

With a lump in my throat, I shut the door and try my best not to think of my replacement – Khloe, a younger, perkier version of myself – moving in as soon as I move out.

As I walk to Poppy I feel boneless, like I’m going to fall, and no one will be there to catch me.

For the first time in fifteen years I won’t have to be at Époque this coming Friday ready for the three busiest days in the restaurant. This feels so alien, so foreign to me that of course I’m bound to feel a little jelly-legged.

‘Ready, Poppy?’ My voice breaks. I tap the side of the van before stowing a box inside and hopping up into the front seat. I freeze. What the hell am I doing, leaving London, leaving all I know?

I sit there catatonic for so long that one of my neighbours, old Mrs Jones, raps on the window, her face pinched, and asks if I’m waiting for the RAC.

A flush of embarrassment flares. I shake my head, and say, ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I’m just …’ Summoning courage, wondering if you can die from a shattered heart, the usual. ‘Waiting for the right time to leave.’

Old Mrs Jones shakes her head in that supercilious way of hers. She’s never liked me – doesn’t like the hours I keep, the way I stack the recycling, the fact I lock my letterbox, trivial things that leave me bamboozled. But over the years I’ve learned she’s like that with everyone, a little judgemental, a lot dramatic.

‘Well, off you go!’ she harries. ‘My daughter is on her way, and she could use this parking space. She has a baby, you know.’

I hold in a sigh. Everyone has a baby these days. Probably Khloe will have a baby that she and old Mrs Jones can bond over, cooing and speaking baby language. Best not to think of it.

‘Right,’ I say and start the engine, wondering if old Mrs Jones will make friends with Khloe. They can gossip together, just like she’s tried and failed with me, because I don’t care if the single guy in apartment four ‘plays those fecking video games with all the guns and the shooting at midnight!’ And I especially don’t care if the twenty-something in six wears ‘those trashy boots that go all the way up to her derrière as if she’s a lady of the night!’ Their lives have nothing to do with me. Perhaps she, Khloe and Callum can dine together at her infamous Monday night supper clubs, and whisper gleefully that they’re grateful I’m gone. Tears sting the back of my eyes and it feels like I might implode – I have to get out of here.

But my imagination runs wild and I visualise Mrs Jones sniping, ‘She’s an odd one that Rosie; always darting away from people like she’s got something to hide.’

I won’t miss old Mrs Jones.

With a deep breath, I pull out and tackle the traffic, ignoring a blast of horn and the wide-eyed look of a pedestrian who edged a little too close for comfort. How many hours of this do I have ahead?

I drive, well, sputter along in Poppy, clamping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. London is difficult to navigate on foot at the best of times, but in Poppy it’s downright terrifying. My first rendezvous point is the camp in Bristol so I set my mind to achieving the goal of arriving there, not dead.

With grim determination, I manage to concentrate and also to ignore the sound of my pulse thrumming my ears by turning the music up. Like people, Poppy has her quirks: she backfires when she’s disgruntled as if she’s telling me off, and pulls sharply to the left if senses me veering this way and that.

It’s a learning curve, and we simply must get to know each other better. When I have a moment of panic, just the usual, WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS I THINKING, she drives straight and true as if she knows she must take control while I briefly lose my mind. Before long, I find my groove, and Poppy belches and squeaks as if urging me on.

Goodbye, London, hello … brand new, exciting life! I crank the music and a slow smile settles over my face. I’ve done it, I’ve really done it and a sort of pride creeps over me.

Chapter 6

Five hours later, well over schedule, I reach the camp in Bristol, accidentally accelerating when I mean to brake, and careen out of control towards a beautiful red-headed girl who wears a look of abject horror because I’m about to run her down!

I stamp hard on the brakes, Poppy fishtails wildly as airborne pebbles shoot into the poor unsuspecting girl like bullets, the sound pow, pow, pow ricocheting off her tiny frame but before long she’s shrouded in a mist of dust. I come to a screaming halt, the smell of burnt rubber permeating the air. Have I hit her? Stiff as a toy solider I manage to fall out of Poppy and land directly into a pile of mud with squelch as I miscue my exit from such a high perch. I turn onto my back, my bones creaking with effort. While my body may have the appearance of someone in the first stages of rigor mortis, I feel strangely euphoric.

I survived!

Poppy survived! London is long gone and I can finally breathe fresh air, and … and then I remember the girl! As the dust settles, I see she’s frozen on the spot, her mouth opening and closing but no words fall out. I’m hoping it’s on account of the dust she’s swallowed and not because a pebble punctured her lung or something. Just as I’m about to call for help, she chokes out, ‘That was some entrance!’

Still supine, relief washes through me as I stare up into her face, her coppery hair falling over her cheeks. She seems calm enough considering I almost killed her. Well, to be fair, Poppy almost killed her. Bloody hell, we’re going to have to practise when it comes to parking and dismount.

When I don’t respond she says, ‘Are you OK?’ Concern ekes from her voice. She’s one of those effortlessly pretty girls whose natural good looks don’t need adornment. Her bright hazel eyes are framed by lustrous black lashes sans mascara. Her hair is the colour of fire, and flashes in the soft sunlight and I feel drab in comparison.

I’ve taken too long to respond, and her eyes dart about looking for help. I get that look a lot.

‘I’m … great,’ I say with what I hope is a convincing smile that belies my inner turmoil. Just the where am I, why did I buy a van under the influence of Shiraz, how am I meant to wash this mud off me, kind of thing.

But there’s no need to panic, it’s all going on the to-do list, things I can improve on, a list of people not to run over, that kind of thing.

A frown appears between her thick, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. How are girls achieving eyebrows so thick they need their own postcode? Tentatively I touch mine, wondering how you can add body to such a thing. There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t had a moment to consider while I’ve been cooped up in a commercial kitchen.

‘You don’t look great, to be honest.’ She’s noticed my eyebrows, and their rather spartan lustre, dammit. ‘You look like you’ve just escaped the jungle, or something.’ She grins.

I laugh for the first time in aeons but by the look on her face the sound is more maniacal than I intend. The jungle, that’s one way to describe it. ‘I have. I’ve just come from London. The urban jungle.’

The unreality of my situation hits me and I just feel so … disconnected from my old life, my old self, and while it’s strange, it also produces a feeling of wild jubilation. From this very moment on, I can be whoever I choose to be!

She holds out a hand to help me up. I pray my legs carry me after being ramrod in Poppy for so long. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’

I follow the girl to a bathroom and jump in fright when I see my reflection in the mirror. There’s no way she could have been judging my eyebrows or any of my face for that matter, because she can’t have seen it under all the caked-on grime from the muddy puddle and who knows what else. Bloody hell! I look like I’ve just participated in a mud wrestling competition, and even my hair sticks out at odd angles, probably because I spent the better part of the drive pulling at it.

‘Did you sleep rough?’ she asks, concern on her face.

‘No, gosh no. The mud is the culprit. It’s amazing that I can find the only puddle from here to the never-never, but there you go.’ After I’ve cleaned up as best I can, we head back outside. Poppy makes the strangest hissing sound and I give her a quick once-over to determine where the noise is coming from.

‘The tyre!’ Air slowly leaks from the front tyre and Poppy droops to the right, as if she’s exhausted. ‘It’s OK,’ I say more to myself than anyone. ‘I’m sure I can …’ I realise I’ve never changed a tyre in my life, and wouldn’t have the foggiest how to go about it.

Bloody hell, who goes travelling around the countryside without knowing how to change a tyre? It defies belief that I could have overlooked such a thing. Me, methodical to a fault, queen of contingency plans.

‘Don’t panic,’ the girl says. ‘I can help you change it. Do you have a spare?’

Oh golly. ‘I’m sure I must do. I guess van maintenance slipped my mind.’

‘I can also give you some pointers on the mechanical side of things. I’m a gun at oil changes and whatnot now, anything to save money, right? I’m Aria, by the way,’ she says, holding out a hand, which I find endearing since my own hands are stained black after my ordeal.

‘Great. I’m Rosie.’ We shake and she gives me a wide smile as if my presence has brightened her day.

‘How’d you find us here?’

‘I stumbled across the Van Lifers online forum and got chatting to a guy called Oliver who told me this was a good starting point, close enough to Wales to stock up and get my bearings.’

You mad, mad thing.

My body aches in strange places, and I’d found the drive as hard as being in command of a busy kitchen. A different sort of hard.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says, flashing bright white teeth.

‘Me too,’ I say, and find myself meaning it.

‘The Van Lifers forum is great. Lots of tips on there, maps, market and festival info, that kind of thing. Plenty of people offering support.’

I nod, overwhelmed by the environment. It’s like I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and arrived in a parallel universe. Checked shirts are obviously a prerequisite. A group of bearded hipsters sit around a campfire, as a gorgeous brunette strums a guitar and sings a haunting song. A few play cards on fold-out tables, some hang washing under their awnings, while others bustle about packing their vans in readiness to leave. A handful give me a wave as I walk past, and I smile tentatively back.

I’m not like them. I sense it already. They exude this sort of worldly air, a certain grace as if they’re comfortable in their own skin, with their open faces and wise eyes that sparkle with all they’ve seen. But I’m determined to sink into this lifestyle and find the ease they all wear in their ready, lazy smiles.

Aria pulls me from my reverie. ‘I’ll make you a brew and we can chat.’

She opens the door to her little van and I gasp as the inside comes to life under flickering candlelight. It’s a utopia for bibliophiles. Rickety bookshelves line the sides of the van, filled to the brim with chaotically stacked books. On the floor, cane baskets cradle bundles of vintage Mills and Boon books, bound together with string. Every nook and cranny is bursting with novels, candles, cushions or rugs and the scent of recently brewed coffee lingers in the air.

While I understand how this would appear like a nirvana for most, for me it produces a sense of unease. This kind of clutter all begins innocently enough. A few things here, then there. Then everywhere.

‘You have a travelling bookshop?’ I say and then mentally slap my forehead.

‘The Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After. I sell romance novels. Word nerd at your service.’ She salutes and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Word nerd has a nice ring to it.’

The dim space is perfumed by posies of fresh wild flowers, and scented candles. Coupled with the aroma of old books, there’s a musty dustiness that hints of times gone by. An old, wrinkled, leather high-back chair sits squished against the side of the van and I bet it’s where Aria spends most of her days.

There’s a bunch of ruched velvet ruby cushions stacked in a pile, textured woolly throw rugs drape from hooks. I imagine whiling away time in the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After would appeal to bookworms everywhere, but another thing concerns me, and I grapple with whether I should speak up or not.

It’s usually these little truth bombs that tend to detonate in my face, but it’s actually a matter of life or death – so I decide to be honest and figure out a subtle way to broach the subject.

I clear my throat. ‘Should you leave burning candles unattended?’ I ask in the nicest possible way, when really I mean, ‘you most certainly should not leave burning candles unattended, especially with so many books laying haphazardly around’. While Aria rescued me from the depths of a muddy puddle, her entire livelihood could have gone up in flames – it’s only fair I should warn her. It’s what I imagine a good friend would do.