This is what they get up to at the boatyard. Somehow, 'craning' seems worse. Fortunately, due to the 'No Access', I couldn't get near it with a red pen.
Tuesday 27 May 2008
Strange place for a van...
This is where the BWV is living. I needed to clarify to many faithful readers where the van is in relation to me - the answer is that I've discovered another whole area of human activity of which I'd previously been ignorant: van storage. All over the country, there are large tracts of gravel set aside for paying customers to leave motorhomes and trailers until they need them, thereby avoiding the need for people to have BWVs parked annoyingly outside their (probably somewhat smaller) homes. And there is a story that thieves know that you're out when the van's gone.
I was reluctant to take the BWV to London, mainly because it presents a large, tempting, white surface for local youth with spraycans (some of the graffiti is amazing, top marks for typography, but I don't want it on my van). So: for a small sum (and it is surprisingly small), I get a parking space in a compound near Daventry at a rather nice narrowboat yard with a chandlery and cafe and a very good petstore nearby for those little 'oh-no-we're-out-of-Markies' emergencies.
The cafe serves good, honest cups of tea in good, honest white china mugs to thirsty boatspersons, as well as home-made cake and a rather cracking cheese and onion sandwich. It's run by two large chefs in clogs. Next door to the cafe is a fantastic shop that sells rope, chains, brass things to screw onto your narrowboat, maps, snacks, waterproofs, candles, electric flex, bilge pumps - indeed, anything a person might need and then some.
When I arrive with the car I can leave it in the space where the van lives, take the van away, and swap them over when I come back. There are several posh vans, but many more posh trailers, and some decidedly non-posh examples of both - things that look, frankly, like they haven't moved for a decade, and probably now can't move at all. But this illustrates the value of tourer as fantasy object: their owners are probably sitting and dreaming of the time when they may just give it all up and go off in the van. It's probably worth the money.
I was reluctant to take the BWV to London, mainly because it presents a large, tempting, white surface for local youth with spraycans (some of the graffiti is amazing, top marks for typography, but I don't want it on my van). So: for a small sum (and it is surprisingly small), I get a parking space in a compound near Daventry at a rather nice narrowboat yard with a chandlery and cafe and a very good petstore nearby for those little 'oh-no-we're-out-of-Markies' emergencies.
The cafe serves good, honest cups of tea in good, honest white china mugs to thirsty boatspersons, as well as home-made cake and a rather cracking cheese and onion sandwich. It's run by two large chefs in clogs. Next door to the cafe is a fantastic shop that sells rope, chains, brass things to screw onto your narrowboat, maps, snacks, waterproofs, candles, electric flex, bilge pumps - indeed, anything a person might need and then some.
When I arrive with the car I can leave it in the space where the van lives, take the van away, and swap them over when I come back. There are several posh vans, but many more posh trailers, and some decidedly non-posh examples of both - things that look, frankly, like they haven't moved for a decade, and probably now can't move at all. But this illustrates the value of tourer as fantasy object: their owners are probably sitting and dreaming of the time when they may just give it all up and go off in the van. It's probably worth the money.
Saturday 24 May 2008
Fatal if fitted
Once you have your motorhome, you can forget worrying about little details such as tyres, diesel, engine oil, power steering fluid, transmission, hydraulic etceteras and all the gubbins that's normally associated with owning a wheeled conveyance. That's the easy bit.
You'll become obsessed with its services: fresh water, waste water, whatever goes into the toilet flush, whatever comes out at the other end, gas, mains power, battery power...the list is endless. I've got a 6 kilo gas bottle, THREE batteries (two for the van, one for the motor), a waste water tank, a fresh water tank (well, two: one for the loo, one for everything else, I think) and a tank that contains things you don't want to know any more about. I have taken many photos of switches, some of which look like light switches but which are, in fact, the mains switch for the whole van, thermostat dials, green and red rocker switches, and things that allow you to judge how many amps (or is it watts, volts, or amperes?) you are drawing from the camp power supply before you plunge a whole village and the life support systems for several new-born farm animals into dark and silence.
The picture shows a selection of my holiday reading. There are ten separate manuals, not including anything about the engine.There's a Thetford cassette toilet (yes, it's a new world of branding out there) - a neat little Dyson-style yellow and grey tank lives underneath it, slides out, nothing nasty - until you unscrew the cap. Then wow.
There's the Truma water heater and the blown-air heating system - the latter works on gas, electric, or both at once, according to some metric known only to itself. If deprived of both gas and electric it probably taps straight into your own core body heat and sucks the life out of you to keep itself going.
There's the Electrolux 3-way fridge - yes, that's gas, electric straight from the engine, and electric from the mains if you're hooked up. If you are driving, you switch it to alternator power. If you stop, you switch it to mains power or gas power. You can't have gas while you're moving and you can't have alternator while you're stopped. It seems a lot to keep some Tesco's tomatoes in the manner accustomed.
There's a cooker, with four burners, oven, and grill, a four -position Heki rooflight, a Cobra alarm (yes, the van does have movement sensors inside, as I discovered when I went to the Co-Op and left the dog in it). There's the Fiamma awning, which you can wind out like a French cafe owner in the morning - and which has an acreage of additional bits and bobs to zip onto it (if you can reach) called a 'Safari Room'. I haven't done this yet for fear of elephants.
Anyway, in most of the manuals, they don't know what set up you have, so all the dire warnings are of the most general kind: 'If fitted, DO NOT leave the mains adapter/alternator lead screw connected UNLESS the vehicle is to be left for extended periods of time, in which case see back'. OK, I made that up, but you see what I mean.
So before you fall asleep watching the stars through your Heki rooflight, you'll remember that if you leave the gas on (or was it off?) you'll die, if you connect the mains lead to the electric on-site hook-up without the right adapter you'll make the whole van live, and die, if you leave the cover off (or on, I forget) the vent for the water heater, you'll die, and if you get the various tanks for the toilet wrong, you won't die, but you could be involved in a nasty blow-back incident that will have you under the shower for a week.
I have managed to master most of this, but not without a few phone calls back to an increasingly amused masculine voice at the end of the phone at Oak Tree Motors. I have decided to persevere. Surely, if I wear rubber-soled waterproof shoes, carry a can of Oust, and don't mind my tomatoes a bit wrinkly, I should make it to Scotland.
You'll become obsessed with its services: fresh water, waste water, whatever goes into the toilet flush, whatever comes out at the other end, gas, mains power, battery power...the list is endless. I've got a 6 kilo gas bottle, THREE batteries (two for the van, one for the motor), a waste water tank, a fresh water tank (well, two: one for the loo, one for everything else, I think) and a tank that contains things you don't want to know any more about. I have taken many photos of switches, some of which look like light switches but which are, in fact, the mains switch for the whole van, thermostat dials, green and red rocker switches, and things that allow you to judge how many amps (or is it watts, volts, or amperes?) you are drawing from the camp power supply before you plunge a whole village and the life support systems for several new-born farm animals into dark and silence.
The picture shows a selection of my holiday reading. There are ten separate manuals, not including anything about the engine.There's a Thetford cassette toilet (yes, it's a new world of branding out there) - a neat little Dyson-style yellow and grey tank lives underneath it, slides out, nothing nasty - until you unscrew the cap. Then wow.
There's the Truma water heater and the blown-air heating system - the latter works on gas, electric, or both at once, according to some metric known only to itself. If deprived of both gas and electric it probably taps straight into your own core body heat and sucks the life out of you to keep itself going.
There's the Electrolux 3-way fridge - yes, that's gas, electric straight from the engine, and electric from the mains if you're hooked up. If you are driving, you switch it to alternator power. If you stop, you switch it to mains power or gas power. You can't have gas while you're moving and you can't have alternator while you're stopped. It seems a lot to keep some Tesco's tomatoes in the manner accustomed.
There's a cooker, with four burners, oven, and grill, a four -position Heki rooflight, a Cobra alarm (yes, the van does have movement sensors inside, as I discovered when I went to the Co-Op and left the dog in it). There's the Fiamma awning, which you can wind out like a French cafe owner in the morning - and which has an acreage of additional bits and bobs to zip onto it (if you can reach) called a 'Safari Room'. I haven't done this yet for fear of elephants.
Anyway, in most of the manuals, they don't know what set up you have, so all the dire warnings are of the most general kind: 'If fitted, DO NOT leave the mains adapter/alternator lead screw connected UNLESS the vehicle is to be left for extended periods of time, in which case see back'. OK, I made that up, but you see what I mean.
So before you fall asleep watching the stars through your Heki rooflight, you'll remember that if you leave the gas on (or was it off?) you'll die, if you connect the mains lead to the electric on-site hook-up without the right adapter you'll make the whole van live, and die, if you leave the cover off (or on, I forget) the vent for the water heater, you'll die, and if you get the various tanks for the toilet wrong, you won't die, but you could be involved in a nasty blow-back incident that will have you under the shower for a week.
I have managed to master most of this, but not without a few phone calls back to an increasingly amused masculine voice at the end of the phone at Oak Tree Motors. I have decided to persevere. Surely, if I wear rubber-soled waterproof shoes, carry a can of Oust, and don't mind my tomatoes a bit wrinkly, I should make it to Scotland.
Guests for dinner
And finally (for this trip at least), Neil Thompson and his partner Rebecca join me for spaghetti bolognaise. Neil (of Neil Thompson nurseries near Matlock) and Rebecca are old friends of mine - I used to work at Neil's nursery and go for long walks with Rebecca and her two bearded collies when I lived in Derbyshire. Neil also leads climbing and skiing trips: I promised to put several friends in touch with him to go climbing in Derbyshire. Don't let me forget, in my new role of nationwide social networker.
Bonnie relaxing after a long day
She's tired, and who can blame her. This isn't just a wander round Alexandra Palace, you know. And it's hot.
The new kettle
I had to give it pride of place. Here's my amazing gift kettle, already a veteran of many cups of tea. Only the most distinguished catering accoutrements are now admitted to the van, so the green pot next to it is another new addition, from the poshest cookery shop in Bakewell. I do think they look nice together.
Cottage Farm campsite, Blackwell
Cottage Farm campsite near Blackwell in Derbyshire was so empty this weekend I parked the van three different places on consecutive nights, just to make the most of the view.
More Wye flora
You have to admire (no, I mean you *have* to, it's compulsory) the variety of colours among the plants that grow in the shallower, slower parts of the river. I took many more pictures like this - think yourself lucky I've only included one of them.
Wild garlic
Here continues the nature lesson - this is wild garlic. Like many of the onion family, they can be eaten whole - the bulb and the leaves. The young leaves (these are getting on a bit, because it's already in flower) can be ground up and made into a very nice ravioli filling with ricotta, or on their own with olive oil, parmesan and perhaps some nice toasted pine nuts make a very passable pesto. Or salad leaves, mixed with rocket...the possibilities are endless. They like to live in damp shady places, so look along your local river or in the woods. Preferably away from the major dog walks.
Yellow meads of Asphodel
Well, pink meads of orchids. This continues the nature lesson - I think these guys used to be quite rare, but for some reason the place is now carpeted with them.
Local welcoming committee
I'm aware that some people more usually confined to basement nightclubs in central London may be reading this - so I am including a little nature lesson. It is May in Derbyshire (well, it is everywhere else as well, but that's how they say it on nature documentaries) and these are this year's lambs. They would have been born in February, so they're quite big now and getting confident about the world. Including dogs - so instead of running away, like older and sillier sheep, they walk towards you and stamp on the ground to scare you off. Be afraid. Be more afraid of Mum in the background.
Bonnie the mountain dog
Considering (brlefly) scaling a limestone face - these faces are worn by the river - unless some geologist corrects me - and are a favourite with climbers. Bonnie's four wheel drive is unequal to the task, unfortunately.
Someone's lost the map
I was worried about the walker who must have dropped this - how did they ever find their way out of Chee Dale without it?
Bonnie spots a fish
You will notice, as you continue (I hope) to peruse this blog, that I am overly taken with the unnatural beauty and winsomeness of my own dog. In this picture, Bonnie is overly taken with the winsomeness of a leaping trout, and only has eyes for the river.
River Wye below Blackwell
The Wye widens out here...and it's a lovely spot to stop. I was enjoying the peace and quiet and a little cigarette, but was bothered for a full half hour by Derbyshire Constabulary playing in their helicopter overhead. They have had to pull people out of Chee Dale using it, so I suppose it's justified...but a bit ironic to be out of London and listening to a noise that reminded me exactly of the Met over Finsbury Park during a game at the Emirates.
There are some tricky bits...
The dog at this point is a little worried about the gaps between the stones - and how deep it is between. At 5 feet 4, I didn't notice the head-height overhang, but wonder how many people concentrate so much on their feet they end up braining themselves.
River Wye at Chee Dale
The path along the River Wye at Chee Dale (I was expecting the Derwent, but there you go) is more than beautiful. Dippers pop in and out among the rocks, it's an amazing range of shades of green, and Spring is just far enough behind London for me to enjoy it all over again. The very few people I met were friendly, including two old chaps struggling down some steps who stopped for a chat. One of them pulled a piece of moss out of my hair for me - observing wryly (and I think in a particularly Derbyshire way): 'They say moss doesn't grow on a busy road'.
A dip at Blackwell Mill
Dog hasn't had a paddle in ages. Shortly after this was taken, she was draping herself around like Queen Victoria swimming off Brighton in full bathing dress. Never an actual swim, but more of a regal cooling-off.
Blackwell Mill cottages
Apparently these were really only accessible by cart track and via the river when they were used by millhands. Now, they're populated by nice people who keep chickens.
Bonnie can't open the gate...
...and I'm too busy taking pictures. The sun came out gloriously on Tuesday 13th May, and I was glad to be alive descending into the Chee Dale Nature Reserve. My Mum once said she didn't like Derbyshire because the hills were too close together. I rather liked the chasms of this area, especially (as you'll see ) the Monsal Trail and the path along the River Wye.
Martin, Annie and Bon
This is possibly the only time the dog, much encouraged, will get to go on the seats.
A woman, a dog, and a big white van
Finally, the three of us united - at Cottage Farm campsite in Blackwell, near Bakewell, Derbyshire. I have not parked the van level (an impression not help by my brother-in-law taking a wonky picture). I was much more level than it appears - but realised the importance of levelling when the vegetables I was roasting for supper leaked balsamic vinegar glaze onto the floor of the oven, and thence out of the oven into a trail on the floor that led all the way to the driver's seat. Unless you want *your* van marinaded in whatever you happen to be cooking, level it when you park up.
The dog fits
...but won over, neatly demonstrating the clever Peugeot design feature which has relocated the handbrake to the right hand side and situated the gear shift in the dash, thereby creating space for arbitrarily large animals to keep you company while you drive.
Well I dunno...
This is Bonnie's first sight of the van. You can see how thrilled she is. Note the flat ears.
Briefly occupying my Mum's front hall...
OK, so it's mostly kitchen stuff. After all, one can't go off to the Hebrides without a choice of garlic crushers, can one?
Yes, but which one is it?
Heading over to Oak Tree Motors in Derbyshire to pick up the new van...which, as you can see, stands out a mile.
Saturday 10 May 2008
Preparing for the killer hedgehogs
I'm sitting at home in my chaotic front room looking at a photo of myself composed out of words - all the lovely words that work colleagues have sent me as a farewell, painstakingly arranged into a picture on my goodbye card. I'm particularly interested in a list of headlines about the Outer Hebrides, listing all kinds of woes from alcohol dependency to killer hedgehogs.
It's a beautiful day today, I am only slightly hung over from the celebrations last night, and I have been admiring my leaving presents - a very sensitively-chosen set they are, too. Presiding over the heap is the most comfortable camping chair I've ever sat in. I've put it up in my front room and have been sitting in it this morning: perhaps time to get the hang of this relaxing thing. Other van accoutrements are a stainless steel flask (good: the last one I had was glass, and I slipped on some rocks in Pittenweem and landed on it. Crash), a nice tea-towel, a beautiful red hob kettle, and a very cute little green colander. All chosen, I think, by Iain, Beth, and Andrew (bless them).
I finally got, perhaps, at my leaving do out in the car park, with champagne, presents, and speeches, that (a) I'm finally actually doing this, gulp, and (b) that people at work think I'm quite nice. I left with an overwhelming impression of just how lovely people are, what a nice bunch, and what a nice place to work. That's a good feeling to be going with. A bit of a lump in the throat. And then this morning, I find myself looking out of the kitchen window, wondering just how we could push this idea of using punctuation in the name of a well-known chocolate snack bar, and pulling myself up short: it's not 'we' any more, and it's not my business. All I need to do is eat them, like any normal member of the public, and not worry about how they're punctuated. It's going to be tough.
I am in rumination mode, at the moment, which involves not getting dressed or starting anything. I used to beat myself up about this, but now I realise it's an essential prerequisite phase to doing anything big. I need to walk about the house, nap, snack, drink coffee and smoke, but behind the scenes the brain (or the heart? who knows) is Getting Ready for the Big One. You need to leave it to do its job, and forget about trying to do anything.
The first hurdle has been discovering that the money to pay for BWV hasn't arrived in my account. And Transact, who is sending it, sent it out into the ether on May 2, so it's hovering somewhere over the Gherkin in London, I imagine, in a binary cloud, or playing with itself on the stock market. But it hasn't made it to my current account, and LTSB's clearance system has apparently not been able to communicate anything to anyone for a day and a half. So I've no way of looking up the pipeline to see if the money is going to land. However, Rosie in the loans department at LTSB has suggested an enormous overdraft in case the money doesn't show in time, and has, bless her, arranged it for me. I told her about what I was going to do with it - and about the Hebrides, because she was in a call centre in Scotland (sounded like Fife, to me) - and she was politely interested, but in the back of her mind she was thinking, every second this woman goes on about her holidays, my call stats are going down. And I thought as I put the phone down: only left work yesterday, and I'm already turning into a batty old lady who rings up call centres to tell them about her cats.
So the BWV is back on, and I can start thinking of the important things, like remembering to take my blanket with a bear on it and the dog's bowl. And which wellies.
I'll get back to you soon, but I feel another cup of coffee coming on. And perhaps a bath. For which I feel a small community of close friends and pets will be grateful.
It's a beautiful day today, I am only slightly hung over from the celebrations last night, and I have been admiring my leaving presents - a very sensitively-chosen set they are, too. Presiding over the heap is the most comfortable camping chair I've ever sat in. I've put it up in my front room and have been sitting in it this morning: perhaps time to get the hang of this relaxing thing. Other van accoutrements are a stainless steel flask (good: the last one I had was glass, and I slipped on some rocks in Pittenweem and landed on it. Crash), a nice tea-towel, a beautiful red hob kettle, and a very cute little green colander. All chosen, I think, by Iain, Beth, and Andrew (bless them).
I finally got, perhaps, at my leaving do out in the car park, with champagne, presents, and speeches, that (a) I'm finally actually doing this, gulp, and (b) that people at work think I'm quite nice. I left with an overwhelming impression of just how lovely people are, what a nice bunch, and what a nice place to work. That's a good feeling to be going with. A bit of a lump in the throat. And then this morning, I find myself looking out of the kitchen window, wondering just how we could push this idea of using punctuation in the name of a well-known chocolate snack bar, and pulling myself up short: it's not 'we' any more, and it's not my business. All I need to do is eat them, like any normal member of the public, and not worry about how they're punctuated. It's going to be tough.
I am in rumination mode, at the moment, which involves not getting dressed or starting anything. I used to beat myself up about this, but now I realise it's an essential prerequisite phase to doing anything big. I need to walk about the house, nap, snack, drink coffee and smoke, but behind the scenes the brain (or the heart? who knows) is Getting Ready for the Big One. You need to leave it to do its job, and forget about trying to do anything.
The first hurdle has been discovering that the money to pay for BWV hasn't arrived in my account. And Transact, who is sending it, sent it out into the ether on May 2, so it's hovering somewhere over the Gherkin in London, I imagine, in a binary cloud, or playing with itself on the stock market. But it hasn't made it to my current account, and LTSB's clearance system has apparently not been able to communicate anything to anyone for a day and a half. So I've no way of looking up the pipeline to see if the money is going to land. However, Rosie in the loans department at LTSB has suggested an enormous overdraft in case the money doesn't show in time, and has, bless her, arranged it for me. I told her about what I was going to do with it - and about the Hebrides, because she was in a call centre in Scotland (sounded like Fife, to me) - and she was politely interested, but in the back of her mind she was thinking, every second this woman goes on about her holidays, my call stats are going down. And I thought as I put the phone down: only left work yesterday, and I'm already turning into a batty old lady who rings up call centres to tell them about her cats.
So the BWV is back on, and I can start thinking of the important things, like remembering to take my blanket with a bear on it and the dog's bowl. And which wellies.
I'll get back to you soon, but I feel another cup of coffee coming on. And perhaps a bath. For which I feel a small community of close friends and pets will be grateful.
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