When they tried to throw us of our pitch!

You’re not going to believe this – but every word is true...                        

When we first arrived at the caravan site, the owner, Malcolm, warned us that he was fully booked for the Easter weekend, so come the end of March, we’d have to move off our hardstanding pitch onto the grass opposite for three nights.

We accepted this with good grace, although we didn’t relish the prospect. We were happy on our hardstanding pitch, immune to the wet weather, handy for the water tap, with fine views across the Cheshire countryside. And, even though the move was only thirty yards, it would mean taking down the awning, transporting its contents, and putting everything away inside the ‘van to prevent breakages during the short journey across the uneven ground. In short, a lot of work and bother just to move from one side of the small site to the other.

But we accepted we would have to do it, because that’s the sort of people we are; reasonable, fair and understanding. Secretly though, I was hoping it would snow on Good Friday, so they couldn’t get here, or they’d have a breakdown, or just cancel because the new grandchild had been born, or the dog had cut its head open and had to be taken to the vet, or they’d decided to go to Tenerife instead.

Whatever, but we would accept our fate.

We'd have to move of our hardstanding for some soggy grass...

I spoke to Malcolm a couple of days before about it, and he’d told me, “Yes, you’ll have to move, unfortunately, but if I can see a way around it, I’ll let you know.”

The weirdness began appropriately on the morning of Good Friday. Call it synchronicity if you like, although we didn’t realise this until later in the day. We got up, had breakfast, and come ten o’clock, were wondering when Malcolm was going to give us our marching orders, as we were hoping to go into town as there was jazz and blues artists playing in the pubs. I decided to go over to the office to find out.

I found Malcolm, and his thick black eye-brows rose when he saw me. “We were wondering what the position was, regarding us having to move.”

He checked the bookings’ ledger. “Yes, you’re going to definitely have to move onto the grass.”

My heart sank. As well as all the hassle, heavy rain was forecast later in the day. 

“You’ll definitely have to move,” he continued. “Definitely. Unless I can persuade one of the new arrivals to go onto the grass.”

My heart lifted, but not for long. “Obviously I won’t know until everyone’s here – so we’re talking this afternoon.”

“The earliest arrival time is 2pm,” I said gloomily, quoting from the website, thinking we’ll be hanging around for most of the day, then we’ll probably have to move after all. No jazz but plenty of blues.

“No, I think it’s twelve or one, maybe.”

That’s when I became aware of a chap standing in the doorway, because a voice said, “It’s definitely 2pm. It’s on a notice in big letters in the information room.”

Malcolm could be forgiven for the lapse of memory, as he had been busting a gut these last few days putting in a few extra hardstandings. Although not for us, apparently.

Malcolm seemed to soften. “There is a couple I’ve got in mind who I think I can persuade to pitch on the grass. I’ll tell you what, you can have a choice. You can either move now and then do something with the rest of the day, or you can leave the caravan where it is, go out, and I can ring you if I need your pitch, and they’ll just have to wait.”

I thanked Malcolm, and turned to leave, apologising to the chap in the doorway. He smiled. “It’s okay; I just wanted to know where the elsan emptying point is.” (Non-caravanners, don’t ask).

He got a lot more than that. In retrospect, I wondered how much of the conversation he had heard, and how much of it he had taken in...

We decided to leave the caravan in situ, and go into Nantwich for lunch and sample the entertainment. As Linda pointed out, “If we’re not here, it’s more likely the other people will go on the grass.”

After parking the car on the edge of the town, we set off, Linda (still) hobbling beside me with her walking stick. An amusing incident occurred as we approached the centre. She asked me how much money I was carrying. I took out my wallet and found almost two hundred pounds inside. She asked me for some of it, and as I was peeling off the notes and handing them over, a couple walked past and the man gave me a smile and a wink, like we were both members of a secret club.

There are two interpretations of his behaviour. The second one goes something like this: I know the feeling, mate. Handing over some of your hard earned cash to the missus so she can buy a new dress. Well, it keeps ‘em happy!

It’s sexist, and condescending – and if he knew the truth, completely wrong!  I told Linda, and we had a good laugh.

After shopping and some lunch, we settled down in one of the bars for some musical entertainment. It was a very talented acoustic duo called Toftie & Bennett, who played rock classics, including Floyd’s, Comfortably Numb!

It was during a break by the band, that a couple standing near us began to chat. “Aren’t you staying at Riverbank Touring Park?” the man asked. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. “Remember me? I was standing there when you were talking to Malcolm.” I nodded. Yeah, the man in the doorway listening to our conversation.

Toftie & Bennett were brill - but we had a secret agenda...

In retrospect I’m really pleased that he didn’t want to talk about it. It could have gone something like this: “What do you think of the band?”

Me: “They’re great, but really we’re hiding away for a couple of hours.”

Him: “Why’s that?”

Me: “We’re hoping if we’re not onsite, that couple who should be on our pitch, will get peed-off with waiting, and will just go on the grass.”

This would end with me smiling at how clever we were, and them joining in. Maybe not.

We went our separate ways, sampling the live music in some of the other bars and pubs. At about four o’clock we decided it would be safe to return to Riverbank. As we drove in there was a sense of relief. A caravan was pitched on the grass. We got out of the car at the same time the couple we’d been talking to in the pub were walking past. It was then I was so glad I’d kept my big mouth shut.

The chap who had heard my conversation with Malcolm was walking across the grass towards the new caravan. She stopped when she saw us.

“They’re our friends, she explained, pointing. “They’ve just arrived. Apparently they’ve been put on the grass, and they’re not happy at all!”

“Well, it’s only over the Easter weekend,” I said putting a positive spin on it. “And there’s no heavy rain forecast until tonight!”

I wondered if her husband would fess up to her about what he’d overheard that morning. More importantly, would he tell their friends?

We hurried into the ‘van, and pulled down the blinds.

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

We had a plan - then disaster!

We had a plan. We would visit local towns and register with estate agents. I have an alert system with Rightmove that sends links to properties within our range, but it’s easy to miss some, and besides, you can’t beat local knowledge. At least that was the theory.

The plan didn’t get off to a good start.

The first town we visited was Nantwich and then Tarporley. We left an hour later feeling dejected. These places were obviously out of our league as regards budget and expectations. With one exception we were treated either with disinterest or something verging on contempt! The fact that we were cash buyers with (what we thought) was a big slab of money, cut no ice. Frodsham was better, and we took away a couple of promising handouts.

Don’t get me wrong – there are dozens of houses that are within our budget – but most of them don’t tick the boxes.

We said clearly that we didn’t want a building project, and didn’t want to be on a busy road. It makes you wonder then, why one of the Tarporley agents gave us a handout for a detached property that needed gutting, sitting besides the A49!

Our next visit was to Whitchurch, just inside the Shropshire border. We were walking down into the town centre, when disaster struck. Linda was wearing boots with high heels, when she tripped and fell heavily.

I helped her to a low wall while we assessed the damage. She could wiggle her toes, but her ankle was badly twisted and painful. Looking back at the offending piece of pavement, surprisingly there was no hole. What there was, though, was a patchwork quilt of tarmac, comprised of all shades and hues, as over the years the existing layers had sunk and worn away, to be ‘repaired’ with yet another dollop of the black stuff. This presented a very uneven surface. I imagined that an industrial archaeologist could spend many happy hours peeling back the pavement, layer by layer, probably right back to the 1940s - or beyond...

She's laughing now - but she wasn't at the time!

Not to be defeated, Linda hobbled onto the main street, and we put Plan B into operation. She would wait while I explored the various streets and parades of shops, looking for estate agents. Only when I signalled to her that I had found an office, would she hobble towards me. As I helped her inside I explained that my wife didn’t normally walk with a hobble, but that she had just fallen victim to the council’s highway cuts.

I brought the car down to her when we had visited the last of four estate agents. There, in her rucksack, she found an emergency bandage laced with coolant, which was wound around the swelling joint.

Currently, she is still hobbling with the aid of a walking stick.

Today we went to Ellesmere in Shropshire, and have come away with several handouts. Time will tell, but so far we haven’t asked for a single viewing. Those properties that did attract us, disappointed on drive-by...

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

How do you keep warm?

There are two questions we get asked by well meaning friends and strangers when they realise we are living in our caravan. Especially in winter. And while we’re being battered by The Beast from the East!

The first question is: “How do you keep warm?”

How did we combat The Beast from the East in our caravan?

If I’m being mischievous, I’ll probably say: “We light a few candles, throw on an extra fleece and a woolly hat then huddle around the flames, shivering.”

Naughty!

In truth, modern touring caravans are designed for all year use, having better insulation, double glazed windows – and the miracle of Alde Heating!

Now, this has nothing to do with the budget supermarket of the same name. It’s a wet central heating system designed and built in Sweden (where they know a thing or two about freezing weather). Pipes carrying hot water, supplied by a small boiler, encircle the caravan. There’s even a heated towel rail in the shower room. The system is digitally controlled by a thermostat that is programmable.

We're safe and warm inside from the Beast...

When we were up near Aysgarth Falls in the Yorkshire Dales a couple of weeks ago, the owner came into the caravan to discuss our stay.  As she sat down, a look of wonder crossed her face. “Goodness me! It’s warmer in here than in our house...”

So there you are. How do we keep warm? We switch on the central heating. Easy.

The second question we always get asked is: But what do you eat?” Yes, they actually speak in italics.

People have visions of us surviving off cold sandwiches and packets of crisps, washed down with luke warm coffee from a flask.

Ah – but we have all the mod-cons! A gas oven, grill, 4 ring hob, a microwave, fridge with freezer compartment...

So, what we eat in the caravan is only limited by our culinary skills. For instance, the other night I cooked Steak & Mushroom Stroganoff served with tagliatelle. Heaven...

So while we appreciate your concern, don't worry, we're as snug as a bug in a rug...

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

When are you going to start looking at houses?

It was during a phone conversation with a friend a few days ago, that he asked me: "When are you going to start looking at houses? You seem to be on a permanent holiday."

He had a point. Since hitching up the caravan and leaving our home, we had spent a couple of nights on a local site, ten days in the Yorkshire Dales, walking, drinking, eating out, walking, drinking, eating out... (you get the picture) Before travelling down to Nantwich in Cheshire to (at last) start searching. Supposedly.

We spent ten days in the Yorkshire Dales instead of house hunting

He pushed the point home. "So when are you going to start?"

"Well, we have to settle down here first - but next week we'll get serious!" I said with indignation.

When I'd put the phone down, I thought about next week. On Monday we were meeting up with my eldest daughter, Natalie, to collect mail which had been diverted to her address, and have a pub lunch. Maybe Tuesday then? Tuesday... we were having a meal with my youngest, Laura. Okay, so we should be able to start the ball rolling on Wednesday? But that was when we had to rush back up to Merseyside for dental appointments and a visit to see the surgeon who had operated on my hand. (I've got 'The Viking's Disease - but that's another story). Then there was Linda's hair appointment (no chance of that being postponed!), and eating out with friends...

This house hunting lark isn't as easy as it sounds! Perhaps that's why it took us so long to sell our own property. A sort of lethargy, or trusting too much in fate to come up with the goods?

In truth we have been doing some virtual house hunting since the beginning of the year, when it seemed (after being let down in the past) that the current buyers might be serious.

I set up an alert system with Rightmove so they'd sent me emails with links to new properties based on the maps I'd set up online. The problem with this is that the only filter I could set was regarding the price band, so most get deleted with hardly a glance. There's another problem too. We don't have a definitive idea of where we want to live!

If you're working, it's easy. You want to be within about half an hour's drive of where you work. Our focus is more fluid than that. We don't want to be too far from the Warrington area where most of our friends live, and my two daughters in Lancashire.

So, that could be Cheshire, north Shropshire, Lancashire or North Wales.

Then there's the type of property and it's position: No new build, because we want room for the caravan, not on a through road because of traffic noise, preferably detached (It wouldn't be fair to inflict AC/DC cranked up on our surround sound system on our new neighbours), not next to a river or a school or a National Trust Property. Preferably a character property, maybe a barn conversion, but one that's already been done up. We're happy to put in a new kitchen or bathroom, but we don't want to start knocking walls down...

We have to be detached so as not to inflict AC/DC on our new neighbours...

Can you see the problem?

My daughters can. They give us a funny look when we're talking to them that says; you're never going to find anything perfect enough.

Well, maybe we'll have to compromise. Perhaps.

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

How did we get here?

We were on holiday in Tenerife with friends when the call came through. It was our conveyancer. "Your buyers want to exchange contracts", she said. "Will you give me permission to go ahead?" We said "yes", of course. Then came the next shock. "You have to be out by the second of March!"

Celebrating our house sale in Tenerife with friends Graham & Heather

In three weeks time we would be out on our ears. When the young couple had first viewed the house, they had asked us whether we had an eye on another property. They didn't want any complications. I said, "no". So what are you going to do, was the rejoinder? I cocked a thumb through the hall window at the caravan sitting on the drive. "We're going to tour around in that, looking for somewhere to live." They exchanged a glance, that said, is he joking?

He wasn't joking. When we told our friends, many of them offered to put us up if the winter cold got too much for us. Lovely people, and we will come and stay, but not yet, hopefully...

But first we had to pack everything, find a removal company and book storage. The last two things were the easiest. We'd been getting rid of things for some time, but we never realised how much stuff we had left. We'd made more than three grand on eBay over the last couple of years or more, selling unwanted items, my vinyl record collection and a pile of scrap metal, Linda had been storing in the garage. But now we had to be ruthless and make some hard decisions regarding treasured ornaments and loved book and magazine collections.

They went - well, many of them did! Then there was the endless trips to the recycling centre, even on the day before we moved out! And trips to the supermarket to pick up countless cardboard boxes. They were all filled, taped shut, or tied up with cord, labelled.

Halfway through all this I had an operation on my left hand. At the recycling centre, one of the staff asked why my hand was bandaged up. I told him I had the 'Vikings' Disease' - a defective gene that caused my finger to bend inwards. The Vikings had brought it over to England when they bred with the Anglo-Saxons. He stroked his chin and retorted: "Those bloody Vikings, they should stay out of our country!" I wondered how he had voted in the EU Referendum...

Things we thought we might need over the next few months were stored in my parents' empty garage, and in a friends' house. It was, and is, very much appreciated. The bulk that was left ended up crammed in a 100 square foot of a storage container.

Came the day, Friday 2nd March, and we were sat at the kitchen table (we had sold some of the furniture to the buyers) in an almost empty shell of a house. It didn't feel like our home anymore, and technically wasn't. We were told that we could be waiting up to 2pm, or even longer, to get confirmation that the money had been paid over. We were sipping coffee at around 10.15 when the phone rang. The deed was done.

We made one last check of the house, which was when I discovered three drawers full of socks! Unbelievable, as we thought we had been so thorough. Socks packed in the car, we hitched up the caravan, and went next door to say farewell to our friends and neighbours. Then, for the last time, we pulled away from the house...

Hitched up and ready to start the adventure...

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)