Meet Polly

Posted on January 5, 2025 by Grace Lessageing

In a post two weeks ago you met Ray, a lonely, lost soul who hung on to the sudden lifeline of a stranger like a drowning man. [ https://gracelessageing.com/2024/12/22/new-fiction-for-christmas/].Now you can meet the stranger, ‘Polly’..

I’ll tell you a secret. My name’s not Polly, actually. I invented Polly just for a new campsite. . It’s a name I haven’t used before and won’t use again, which is a shame because it’s one of my favourites. At the last place I was Edwina, or ‘Eddie’ to anyone I shared time with.

There’s only one person who knows my name and that’s my friend-with-benefits, Viv. Incognito, that’s me; like MaCavity the Mystery Cat, although I don’t come across as mysterious. I appear more of a jolly, cosy kind of person, which is the persona I adopt when meeting anyone. I like T S Elliot and I like cats. I’d have one if my lifestyle permitted it.

Another thing is I don’t like returning anywhere, which starts to get tricky when you’ve lived this life for a few years. I like to get to pastures new, see new faces and have conversations without getting involved and bored witless.

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t always a wanderer. I did start adult life like most people: job, home, friends, night at the pub, gym session, visiting family. I was even married once, briefly- to a man, too!

I meet a lot of people in my nomadic existence, many of them solo travellers, many of them lone men. From experience, I know better than to spend more than a few hours with anyone.

Thing is, folks always want more. You meet, you spend an hour or so and it’s pleasant enough, but then they clamour for another bit of you. They want to cook you something. They want a day out. They want sex. They want to stay over. They want to go on holiday. No thanks. In the beginning, I used to try and explain. ‘Enough is enough’, I’d say, ‘I’m moving on’. And they’d get upset, affronted, take it personally. I began to find it easier to slip away without saying a word, so that’s what I do now.

I can live like this because I work from home- from Daisy, my van, that is. I write travel articles for a number of publications. I’m quite good at it, having developed a reputation for impartiality. I don’t have a lot of overheads. Sometimes, in the winter, when the weather’s bad, I park up at Viv’s for a week or two, then off I go again.

It’s getting towards the end of summer now, which means a lot of sites will close, limiting my options for places to stay, but I can always cross the channel and head south. Sometimes you can almost smell the end of season in a place. Take the site I was at last night. There were dozens of ‘regulars’ there, retired, people who’d been there months. Some were starting to pack up, some leaving with their caravans, others leaving in cars. I met one long-termer- Ray. He was parked up next to me. I watched him returning from the showers then I made out I’d forgotten to bring a tin opener [I hadn’t] to see what he was like. I could see he was a lone man as there was no evidence of a woman- especially seeing the state of his caravan!

I asked him if he fancied going to the bar later on. This is what I tend to do- hook up with someone for a meal so I don’t have to sit on my own like a pariah. When I called for him I could see he’d made a bit of effort with his appearance, tidied himself up a bit. Ominous.

They did an ok pint in the bar and the menu was adequate, if not gourmet. Ray, though, it was as if he’d been storing up all his misery, waiting for me, ‘Polly’ to sit and listen to it. Yes, I know his wife died. Yes. I know he’s lonely. There are organisations and clubs that exist for people like Ray. Not me, though. He wanted to hear about me, too, but I managed to steer him off life histories by asking him about the local walks- a common ploy for me. I’d no intention of walking anywhere, mind and not with Ray, who seemed to think we were going out along the coast path in the morning. Oh no, nooo, not me. I’d be far, far away by the time he surfaced. And I was…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Fest and Eye Fest

Posted on September 22, 2024 by Grace Lessageing

So- we [the OLD couple] have settled in on the festival campervan field at Valleyfest. It’s Friday afternoon and we prepare to walk to the main fields and see what’s happening. Preparation includes hats, water and beach chairs [although foolishly, as it turns out, we omit rainwear].

The camping field covers a large area so we must walk a bit to get to the ticket entrance but once there our bags are checked [for bombs? or alcohol?], we’re braceleted and in. Then it’s past the tents, up quite a steep hill and in. The first thing that grabs attention is the striking, rocket-like structure on top of the hill, flanked by gothic structures at each corner. This is where the insistent, throbbing base beat is coming from. It’s manned by DJs and is to become spectacular in the dark.

Beyond this there’s the bar, which is impressive, having embraced shabby chic, Victoriana and a plethora of other styles. Half of the entire area is covered and there are booths along one side, the wall sporting old pictures and photos. Strings of lights with old-fashioned lampshades [the sort with fringes] festoon the edges of the roof, which is then open to the outside. True to type, we settle ourselves here first. It’s a great place to people-watch, enabling me to scrutinise the wide array of festival outfits- about which- more later!

This part of the site does not house any stages, so it’s time to go and find out what’s on and have a look. To do this we must walk through an archway and down a lane lined with myriad food stalls- mostly, as I predicted, cheese and/or chilli orientated. When dinner time approaches I’ll have a job to find something to eat.

The main stage is down at the bottom of the hill. At this time, late afternoon/early evening, although there are many people milling around the entire site, there aren’t huge numbers watching the stage, but there is a band on this evening, Tankus the Henge, who we’ve seen before and liked. They’re described as ‘gonzo’ rock and roll- which is ok by me!

I like a range of musical styles- rock and roll, pop, soul, blues and I’m partial to a smidgeon of heavy metal on occasions, too, mainly for the drama. Genres I haven’t taken to include , drum and base, some types of electronic music and rapping- which rules out ‘Tiny Tempah’ who is scheduled later in the weekend.

Annoyingly, the weather is deteriorating and while we’ve brought our chairs, there’s no fun in sitting in the drizzly rain that’s sweeping intermittently across the field so we decamp to the nearest bar, along with many others. There’s only so many beers I can imbibe [2 is the limit!] and there’s no seating in this stage-side beer and cider tent, meaning we stand under the dripping canvas.

A stallholder selling plastic ponchos must have gambled on the weather and won, as festival goers swathed in them are everywhere, concealing their carefully curated outfits [more in a later post].

We stay a little longer, out then in a couple more times, then call it a day.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Caught without a Web

Posted on April 7, 2024 by Grace Lessageing

We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Best Laid Plans

Posted on September 10, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We’d planned to move from Symondsbury, Dorset, to Portland for a night or two. Our three nights were up and Husband’s idea was to stay at a pub stopover, where we’d be able to park up for a night for the price of a meal we’d get in the hostelry. We’ve done this before when travelling long distance and it worked well when we drove up to Shetland. On this occasion, however, we draw a blank. The pubs that had seemed to be offering overnight parking on Portland have been prevented- by what, we do not know- a by-law, perhaps?

Portland, of course has become famous- or infamous- for having to host the hostel barge, the ‘Bibby Stockholm’ where asylum seekers would be moved from their hotels. Opinions differ about the rights and wrongs of housing the refugees on the barge although those who’d moved in subsequently had to be moved again due to disease-ridden conditions.

We’re stuck with a conundrum. There’s just one night before we are due to move to a site nearer home and we’re out of time on Ernie’s Plot. After some research it becomes clear we’ll have to move into Somerset and to a pub with a campsite not far from Yoevil. It’s a pretty village and pub, although the rain confines us to van until we go to eat. Again, the pub provides a delicious meal and the site is fine for a night.

I’m impressed by the German family who were eating in the pub- a couple with two teenage sons. They emerge in the morning, after a rainy night, from two, tiny Quechua pop-up tents which [the parents] quickly fold away into the boot of their hire car before they all sit at a picnic table for breakfast; truly a minimalist trip!

It so happens that we’re close to Montacute House, a National Trust property with lovely grounds. We pack up and head off there, having coffee in the van then wandering the house and gardens which are formal and elegant. Built in 1598, the house belonged to an Elizabethan lawyer, Sir Edward Phelips. It’s popular today in spite of the intermittent rain, with children playing on the games lawn and the cafe courtyard busy with people lunching. We return to the car park and have lunch in the van before heading off to yet another National Trust property, Tintinhull Garden, a mere 7 minutes away.

We park and follow a path through an orchard meadow, through a gate, across a road to a lovely old manor house. The garden lies through an archway, a network of 7 garden ‘rooms’ in arts and crafts style. It’s far quieter than Montacute, a peaceful spot with a graceful pond and gazebo and wonderful large beds with rows of flowers and vegetables all mixed up together. Through a gate is a wilder area with fruit trees, including a mulberry tree groaning with fruit.

Our third site is to be much closer to home, back into Dorset to a village near Poole. It’s South Lychett Manor, an enormous, family friendly site with every convenience you can think of and quite a few you can’t. There is a grand entrance through wrought iron gates and a long driveway, an extensive shop, a pizza van and cafe. It’s a far cry from Ernie’s Plot but variety, as they say…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Returns and revisits

Posted on July 30, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We leave the Isle of Noiremoutier via the ‘Passage du Gois’, a paved causeway that is exposed at certain times of day when the tide is out. It is just about wide enough for two vehicles to pass. On the approach road, cars and vans are parked up on the verges but we’re able to descend on to the cobbled road across the sea without too much trouble. We progress slowly across, the exposed seabed stratching away on either side teeming with people. They are collecting shellfish, barefoot with trousers rolled up or welly-clad, entire families sometimes, making a day out of it. There’s 4.2k of the causeway, then we’re at the other side, where oyster shacks and seafood cafes line the road and there’s a convenient aire du pique-nique for us to stop for lunch.

We’re heading back to another site we’ve stayed at before, at La Bernerie-en-Retz in South Brittany, although it’s quite some time since we were here with our little VW pop-top van, our first van. The site is memorable in that Husband nipped out in the twilight and returned with a hedgehog tucked under his jacket. He brought it into the van and I gave it some pate before we returned it to the hedge. But the site is yet another that has become part of a chain, developed, acquired multiple swimming pools, slides and faux-cliffs as well as a vast number of chalets. Ho hum…

We also discover that we’re about to exit the discount dates on our ACSI card, something we’d neglected to consider, so we opt to cut things shorter, using aires or municipal sites to get home and return a little earlier than planned.

We have an afternoon stroll down to the town and the seafront. It’s pleasant enough although nothing special and there doesn’t appear to be anywhere whizzo to dine.

Next day we set off towards Pornic for what will be our third visit to the picturesque port town. We’ve done this cycle before. It’s more undulating than our cycling has been so far this trip and requires a fair bit of effort for ancient legs, but we get there, park the bikes and wander round in the sunshine. There’s a railway station by the bridge- last time we’d cycled there and brought our bikes back on the train to La Bernerie. On this occasion, though we’re cycling back to site.

Our discount ACSI camping card having run out of discount dates, it’s time to curtail our wanderings and begin the trek north, so we set off on a much driven route towards an aire that we used years ago when we made the enormous gaff of parking in the service bay. In the morning we woke to irate faces glaring in at the windows of our little VW pop-top. Now we’re no longer rookie aire users and know better. The aire is at St Brice-en-Cogles, an extremely quiet town, although the aire is magnificent- large, with marked out hard-standing places, toilets and all services [and all for the princely sum of…nothing].

We just about manage to get a meal in the only restaurant that isn’t ‘complet’ then in the morning we’re off again, following our usual route towards the bay of Mont St Michel…

Alghero and the Wonderful, Watery Caves of Neptune

Posted on October 16, 2022 by Grace Lessageing

The boat to the Grotte di Nettuno, off the quayside at Alghero, Sardinia is just about to leave when we make a spontaneous decision to buy tickets and get on board. There’s just enough room inside the boat’s seating area, although when we choose a seat a couple across the aisle shoo us away, which is a mystery, since nobody else takes the seat. It’s a forty-five minutes or so trip, the first part simply going out to sea but then it becomes much more interesting as we near huge limestone cliffs with interesting formations and caves.

The boat begins to pull into a bay, which has us wondering where on earth the caves can be, but it is merely stopping to pick up more passengers. Once they’re on we round a gigantic rock and into a rocky inlet. Along the cliff side there’s a tiny walkway with people clambering along it, up and down- another way to access the grotte.

Once we’re off the boat there’s a mass of tourists to buy tickets- because of course, the boat trip does not include entry to the caves. There are a lot of visitors, and very little in the way of orderly queuing but we get our tickets [and with a concession for old age. I ask the ticket seller how he knows we’re eligible and he tells me; ‘because you are nice’…]

Even in this outer part of the caves the sight is other-worldly. But as we climb the steps and begin to make our way around it’s clear these are no ordinary caves. They are magic! The stalactites and stalagmites, the columns, the pools and the reflections are extraordinary and breath-taking. And it’s extensive, the path winding round and round and sometimes we must duck and walk bent over as we wind around the caverns and pools.

We eventually emerge and there’s a boat to meet us, stopping as before to disgorge some of the passengers.

Back at Alghero, there’s little time to explore the town as we need to get our bus back to site. We’ll return next day.

In the event, the following day we wait at the bus stop opposite the site as before and wait…and wait. It’s hot. We’re on the point of giving up when a bus appears and pulls up. Hooray! But then the driver gives us a stern look and points at his face, which is partly covered by a mask, of course- masks being still obligatory here on public transport. We are wearing our masks. I point to mine, in case he is mistaking it for my face. He shakes his head. Apparently we are wearing the wrong sort of masks. Who knew? Certainly not yesterday’s bus driver. He pulls away without opening the door. We wait.

A kind Irishman, also waiting, gives us the ‘correct’ masks. Another bus comes, eventually. In the town we find the phone shop the lady at tourist info told us about and get a replacement memory card for my camera plus a SIM card for our mobile wifi device.

The old town of Alghero is quaint, though not extensive and we feel we’ve done it after an hour or two. The historic area is behind substantial walls by the port. We get our bus [without incident this time] and return to site. I have the tricky task of getting the damaged memory card out of my camera and downloading the photos into my laptop, which goes fine until I need to remove the card from the computer, when it leaves the broken part inside the slot. I do manage to remove it but clearly the slot is damaged.

Then again, the Italian SIM card does not work. Hmmmmmm…………

The Rest of the Fest…

Posted on August 21, 2022 by Grace Lessageing

On our second day at Wickham Music Festival we’re aiming to spend longer in the arena but we’re still not going over there too early. There’s little shade until later and the heat is punishing. But we’ll peruse the food stalls and see what they have to offer. Festival food tends towards a wide variety of cuisines and can be delicious, although they’re a bit short on fresh items like salad, which I begin to miss after too long.

We stop by at the Magic Teapot for a cup of their excellent tea, paying what we think we should, as requested. The inside of the wooden building is cute, with benches built into the hexagonal walls but the ash from the wood fire is annoying and as you would expect, it’s hot! By the time we get up to the top of the hill inside the arena everything is, of course, in full swing.

Much of the festival music is being provided by folk bands, many of whom are Irish and while this is not necessarily a bad thing I’m yearning for something rockier and heavier. Today we’ve brought chairs- the lightest, easiest to carry chairs we have, which also happen to be beach chairs. They are very low and tricky to get up out of, especially for we mature types, but we manage- even if we look somewhat undignified lurching out on to the ground and heaving ourselves up. The chairs, awkward as they are prove to be a godsend and we can plonk down in a bit of shade outside a marquee and move when we wish. The marquees are packed inside with standing audience, although there’s a large screen outside stage 1 for close-up views.

Something about a festival seems to imbue the attendees with a desire to exploit their sartorial fantasies, which provides more entertainment of course- although the explosion of kilt wearing is excessive and while it may be cooler than shorts, kilt fabric is thick and woolly and surely sweltering?

During what I like to think of as a lull I go to browse the stalls and return with small gifts for the grandchildren. There are many, many children here at the festival in various states of excitement or boredom, both of which manifest themselves in different ways, from tearing about amongst the sea of recumbant humanity and spraying various substances picked up from stalls [eg ‘silly string’] to sitting, ear-defender clad, with small screens, to eating copious ice-cream/doughnuts/candy floss/chips, to sleeping. There are tiny babies and recalcitrant teens. The festival goers are as entertaining as the music.

Day three passes in similar fashion, except that it’s Saturday and the festival population increases to madness level as those with day passes arrive. By now the portable toilets have become a little un-fragrant in the heat, although the volunteers are doing stirling work on emptying bins and picking up litter. We’re glad of the camp-site trailer showers which are efficient, roomy and clean and save constant filling of our van’s tank. We’re also doing four days without electric hook-up and although we have constant sunlight it’s debateable whether we’ll cope. We’re turning off the internal fridge at night and using the gas fridge [outside] for anything crucial like medication. In the evening we get to see The Levellers.

The last day, Sunday is more laid back, with fewer people, though it’s as hot as ever. I’ve promised myself a visit to the Storyteller tent, where some children and their parents are gathering. The story is for the children and in truth- they are the most entertaining part as they respond to invitations to contribute.

In the late afternoon sunshine we get beers and relax. This evening is mostly about seeing The Waterboys and we’re not disappointed as they launch into their set with numbers familiar and unknown to us.

By the time we get back to the van the electric gauge is on red, but we’re off home next day. And there’s only two days until we’re due to go for a local, family camping get-together-

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

For the Faint Hearted…

Posted on June 5, 2022 by Grace Lessageing

This post is not for those who are wedded to cruises, villas, flights and hotels. It isn’t for anyone who is horrified by spider webs, unable or unwilling to step out on to grass, horrified by fresh air and/or traumatised by seeing others in public facilities such as lavatory blocks. It won’t suit anyone who doesn’t enjoy visiting new places, exploring or undertaking an occasional bit of research or problem solving. If your preferred trip is to sit on a boat or a coach and have sights pointed out to you from a window, then be stuffed with food and drink before enduring cabaret style entertainment, read no further.

There may be those, however who are wavering on the edge of independent travel and have not tried tents, vans or motorhomes but might be persuaded by the freedom it represents, the opportunity to be spontaneous, change your mind on a whim or the weather, stay as long or as little as you wish, eat when and where you want, discover things, meet all manner of people.

Using tents, vans and motorhomes these days is all blanketed under ‘camping’, although it isn’t- at least not camping as it was when I was a child, when we put up ex-army tents in a corner of a farm field. Nowadays everything is far easier, and campsites have become comfortable, user-friendly villages. broadly speaking their services are much the same; clean, warm shower blocks with laundry facilities and dishwashing areas and often a grocery shop. Many offer restaurants and bars or are within walking distance of them [we prefer these to sites in the back of beyond].

We’ve developed tricks to make life on a site even easier. While some campers are happy to wander across to the shower in PJs or a onesie, carrying a towel, I find that a supermarket ‘bag-for-life’ is my best friend, so that when space is at a premium or there is little more than a hook, my change of clothes/towel/anything else is kept dry in the event of an over-exuberant spray. In aires [see https://gracelessageing.com/2018/09/02/aires-and-graces-guide/ ] we have perfected the art of showering in our tiny but adequate van shower, where often the water is hotter than many site showers.

Campsites are commonly situated with beautiful views that you would be hard pushed to get from any hotel, such as next to Loch Ness [Scotland], the wonderful Belt Bridge [Denmark] or by the gorgeous Geiranger Fjord in Norway. Sometimes you cannot fault their location; we camped up against the walls of ancient Pompei on an Italian trip. Where they are not so close, a bus stop or station is usually near the site entrance. Many, like the ones along the Nantes-Brest canal are placed by cycle tracks.

Sometimes we stumble upon a site so luxurious it has to be seen to be believed, such as the one at Seelbach in Germany’s Black Forest, which has children’s showers like an undersea cavern and Innsbruck, where the bathrooms would rival a 5* hotel and have stunning views of the snow-topped mountains surrounding the site.

By the time you read this we’ll have started off once more- away down to SW France and some of our favourite old haunts as well as some new ones!

Going Local

Posted on May 29, 2022 by Grace Lessageing

Home from our two week dash to Brittany we unload, deal with domestics, undertake some garden rescue [drought had been threatening to murder many plants], clean the van and make another, impromtu dash; this time to the New Forest, which is on our doorstep and to a favourite spot- Holland’s Wood at Brockenhurst.

We choose midweek, calculating that the weekend will elicit throngs of campers into the Forest and it’s certainly quiet as we arrive in the early afternoon. Husband is keen to try out a plan he had devised to manage for longer without electric hook-up [Holland’s Wood has none]. Our ancient camping gas/electric fridge has been resurrected for use outside, now that there is an external gas outlet on the van, freeing up solar power for other devices.

In the old, tent camping days the gas fridge was a boon and much used on trips. Subsequently it has been used as an extra fridge at parties or during the freezer defrosting process.

For the uninitiated, the New Forest National Park covers app 150 square miles of land in the south of England and is home to a vast variety of wildlife as well as livestock- pigs, cattle, donkeys and ponies that roam unrestricted throughout the park. The animals, in particular the ponies have adapted to visitors and developed skills in stalking and mugging and anyone sitting down to enjoy an innocent picnic can expect to be gatecrashed by a couple of hungry, marauding ponies.

Ponies, donkeys and cows also wander into the campsites, weaving expertly through and around tents, vans and motorhomes and helping themselves to anything vaguely food related. It’s mid-morning when a tribe meanders into Hollands Wood, one of the mares accompanied by a young foal, all legs and eyelashes. He’s curious, sniffing and nibbling a campervan. Camera at the ready, I go to watch, although not so close as to upset his protective mum. He spots me and walks towards me and I can’t help stretching out a hand, at which he puts his soft nose into it. The mare continues to graze, unperturbed. It’s a wonderful moment.

One reason for choosing Holland’s Wood site is proximity to Brockenhurst village, with its shops, cafes, pubs and restaurants, although walking there and back involves trudging along by the busy main road for some of it. It’s a cute place though, with a parade of shops and a railway station, making it just about possible to go camping by train.

Due to wrist surgery I’ve not cycled for about a year and this is the occasion for trying it out- first around the relatively flat campsite a few times, during which my legs begin to hurt already, then for a short ride on a forest track. The gravelly track is bumpy and I’ve not brought my support straps, so post-cycle my wrist is not too happy!

We BBQ on our new gas, outdoor cooker then the evening closes in with some magnificent thunder and lightning plus a few showers and we sit outside under the awning to enjoy the spectacle.

Next day is a rest for wrists and we walk. We go through the village and up to picturesque St Nicholas church, which we weren’t able to see inside the last time we looked as its roof had collapsed. It’s a tiny and beautiful church and has a special stained glass window donated by New Zealand, in recognition of the health care given to their war veterans in the First World War.

Walking in the New Forest is always rewarding and I feel we’ve earned the meal we have in The Huntsman, just along the road. We leave on Friday, just as others are streaming in to the site, encampments of tents springing up and it’s looking much busier. Goodbye for now but we’ll be back again soon…

Van Talk Again…

Posted on September 5, 2021 by Grace Lessageing

Continuing the history of Lessageing campervans…

Our current campervan, a Fiat Ducato, is now longer new- either in terms of age or miles, and of course in recent times there has been a veritable explosion of brand new, shiny motorhomes as people took to van trips instead of the cruises and villas they could not book. Acknowledging this, we like to call it a ‘Vandemic’, and the newbie owners, ‘Pan-vanners’ and although we’ve met and chatted to many who are new to this way of travel we harbour hopes that in due time they’ll go back to their package holidays and cruise liners, perhaps even leaving a plethora of slightly used travel wagons in their wake.

But before all this, and after our thrilling Italian Odyssey [previously described], Husband set to on another ambitious plan, to drive to the Peloponnese. This would be via France, Italy, Croatia, Montenegro and Albania. Thus far we’d camped in Croatia, but had gone no further than Dubrovnik, so it felt intrepid to be undertaking such a trip. I’ve described this adventure previously, episode by episode, but haven’t ever fully explained how a piece of independent travel like this can be.

Not all of the countries we crossed are as developed in terms of camp sites, roads, services and facilities as the more familiar ones. Not all of them were easy to insure for, either, as you can read next week! Croatia’s roads had improved a great deal since out first foray with a tent and the sites were more established and widespread. Montenegro, however, the tiny country between Croatia and Albania, provided more difficulty. We wanted to see Budva, hailed by the guide books as a kind of ‘mini-Dubrovnik’ but could find no sites or stopovers near to the town. I pursued the search, eventually, on a German travel website finding a possible place off a backstreet several roads away from the front.

Using the satnav coordinates we circled the supposed site, unitl I spotted what may have been a corner of a caravan roof, which we headed towards. Through a narrow gateway and up a rutted track, past a smouldering bonfire we came to a halt, the only sign of life a few heedless people further up inside the supposed ‘site’. I went to inspect what looked like a shower block, which turned out to have been one once, but leaves had blown in and it seemed disused. After a while a gentleman turned up on a moped; the owner, gesticulating and apologising. They were closed, but we could stay, which we did.

The old, walled town of Budva is interesting and historic, although it does not in any way compete with Dubrovnik. We went to look, then walked along the seafront, attractive enough, lined with restaurants and bars. We chose one and had a creditable meal, then returned to the strange, ‘closed’ campsite and spent the night there. Nothing untoward happened inside the locked site gates, despite misgivings over the security of the place.

We left in the morning and prepared ourselves for the next challenge, to cross into and over Albania…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsendis now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishingand many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook:(1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

Anecdotage

Views from the Descent

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