Wanted: Small caravan with room for a bicycle. (Part three).

Tags

airbnb, buyingacaravan, caravans, corona virus, DeWaard awnings, Eriba familia, eriba puck, hertz car hire, Robbie Burns, The Netherlands

Decisions!

‘But mouse you are not alone

in proving foresight may be vain

the best laid schemes of mice and men go often askew

and leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy’

When Scottish poet, Robbie Burns turns up a mouse’s nest while ploughing a field (He was a farmers son after all) he wrote a poem to the mouse and thus makes famous, the line ‘the best laid schemes’.

That was back in 1785.

And ever since then, men and women’s best laid schemes still go askew.

But sometimes they go smoothly too.

27th feb 2020 08:30

The day I arrived in Amsterdam, the corona virus was far from my mind, instead I mulled over whether to take full cover on my car rental or chance the basic.

I chose the full.

I wanted no hiccups!

And as I joined the busy traffic out of Schiphol Airport, my shoulders relaxed and I smiled to myself.

So far nothing had gone askew.

I hadn’t missed my flight. The plane hadn’t crashed. I had remembered my drivers licence. It hadn’t been rejected.

On the contrary, holding it reverently between two beautifully embellished shellac nails, the receptionist at the Hertz car hire desk, tapped in my details in that now recognizable manner of one who has such things attached to their fingers. without once wrinkling her nose in distaste.

As she handed it carefully back to me, I reminded myself that I really must get more sticky tape to hold the folded pink paper document together.

My drivers licence is a bit of a curiosity.

The first time I showed it in public was many years ago on a family holiday in Portugal.

‘I’m putting you down as a named driver’ My Portuguese Son in law announced as we stood outside the car hire office in Porto airport surrounded by our baggage.

‘You might need to escape from us every now and again’.

I rummaged in my bag for the above mentioned document and gingerly handed it over.

He looked in disbelief between the much-mended-with-tape-piece-of-paper that was mine and the shiny plastic card that was his before trudging into the office without complaint.

But now, as the flat fields spread out on either side of the four lane motorway, I concentrated on where I was going, obeying the giant road signs.

Amsterdam to my left, Amstelveen to my right, On and on I went and then the four lanes changed into two.

Oh the pleasure of driving in a well behaved country!

No one hogged the outer lane. Drivers indicated and pulled in and out smoothly.

No one came up fast behind me with full lights on because I was overtaking too slowly for their liking.

It was so stress free that I was disappointed to reach my first port of call.

Sighing, I pulled into a parking space outside the caravan showroom in Lichtenvoord.

This was the first of three such places I had chosen to view and hopefully purchase the caravan of my choice from.

And, as I had planned to drive to the next showroom further north the following morning before finally heading even further north again to the kip caravan showrooms in Hoogeveen, I had chosen an airbnb equidistant to all places.

But things moved faster than I had anticipated.

Now I am not one of those people who hum and haw or do research or look at every nook and cranny before making a decision. I pride myself in being a ‘spontaneous’ buyer. My eye needs to be caught, my heart jolted, I need to get that ‘that’s it’ feeling (not a very reliable method when about to hand over a few thousand euro I hear you exclaim) and though the caravans here in Litchenvoord were excellent, none of them did that for me.

Or maybe it was just an excuse to drive again. Whatever the reason, I was on the road within the hour.

27th feb 2020 13;00 hrs

The flat dutch countryside has its beauty.

Clusters of farms here and there on the wide panorama. The odd windmill.

Wooden free standing gates at intervals indicate entry into the dyke enclosed fields.

Church spires marking out villages.

Small bicycled figures on the horizon lean into the wind. Women going shopping no doubt or bunches of children heading home from school.

Despite being a small country, the feeling of space is ever present, and coming from a place whose mountains constantly block my view, the openness here was a welcomed novelty.

By now I had reached my second destination in Dedemsvaart.

I wandered around another pristine showroom.

A tiny eriba puck that would test small ‘liv-ers’ to the limit caught my eye and I was tempted.

The pretty shaped teardrop T@G also caught my attention.

I was busy taken notes when the owner appeared bringing in yet another van.

Slightly bigger than the puck, the Eriba Familia measures 4 meters 83 cm in length and is just 2 meters wide.

I stop my note taking and walk  across to where he was unhitching the caravan.

‘Can I look inside?’

‘Its not cleaned yet, but sure, go ahead!

‘1996?’ I asked. I was beginning to be able to tell the age by the interior design.

‘1993’ he replied ‘It had its test in December ’19. I’ll have it ready later if you want to have a better look.

I checked the clock on the wall. I still had time to visit the kip caravan.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow I promised’

27th feb 2020 16:00

A trip to the kip showroom in Hoogeveen would change the mind of even the most reluctant caravanner.

I was so excited by it I forgot to take a photo so bear with me while I try to describe what I saw.

For a start all the caravans are laid out in ‘camping mode’.

They snuggle between false trees and mounds of sand.

Artful piles of cut logs are arranged in natural heaps and there is a camp fire in front of each ‘site’.

And to make it even more appealing, each caravan has an awning attached.

Not the flimsy lightweight type that crackles and snaps all night keeping you awake. But the heavy De waard canvas one. The strong and silent type.

With an hour to closing I scoot around, peeking inside and out.

As I have mentioned in my previous post, the kip shelter is the smallest of this brand of caravan and the lightest.

Its simple interior appeals to me. The wide door at the back, means I can easily wheel my bikes on board.

There are three types of kip shelters.

The basic and The plus. (There is also an off road with a higher axle)

And here is where it becomes complicated.

For me, the basic is too basic. It doesn’t even have a front window. I know I would feel claustrophobic in it.

The plus on the other hand, has many features!

A ‘lift in and out kitchen’ for example. (Unhitch the kitchen unit, lift it outside, reattach it to a rim at the back of the caravan and you can now cook al fresco. Wonderful if you are in the south of France or Spain or anywhere where it is sunny and windless, but I’m not sure of its practicality in the wild and windy and often rainy west of Ireland)

There are no curtains in this caravan. Instead handy pull up blinds help make the interior appear roomier. The small reading lights can be moved as needed along a tracking system fixed to the ceiling.

There are ample sockets and if I remember correctly a USB port

The Plus also has underfloor heating.

Now all this sounds tempting but I remind myself that staying on fully equipped caravan sites is not my plan.

I need advice.

I step into a dark blue ‘Plus’ edition and pull out my phone.

Inside the theme continues in a soft charcoal. A color that implies contemporary sophistication.

It feels clinical and clean but try as I might I can’t imagine feeling cozy in it.

I ring my daughters.

‘Austere is the word that comes to mind’ I tell them.

‘Would Nordic be a better description’? One daughter asks

‘Yes Nordic describes it’ I agree, feeling I have been unfair to the caravan.

‘Sounds minimilistic?’ suggests the other ‘which might be a good thing, all that sand dragged in and out, would be easy to keep clean. But how does it actually feel?’

‘Hmmmmm’ I reply ‘Its as light as a feather, I can easily push it myself’

‘Light as a feather doesn’t sound good to me’ There’s a pause ‘Like, will it blow over in a storm?’

That is a good question. Storms are very much part of our camping/caravaning experiences.

‘Maybe Go away and sleep on it’ My daughters advise.

So I do

Feb 27th 2020 20:00

My airbnb is perfect.

A shed (stuur) behind the old farm house has been converted into a self catering apartment complete with sitting room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom.

I follow the owner around the path to its door.

It is dark and she has wellies on. I feel at home already.

‘I have to bring Nana the cow in to her stall’ She lifts up a wellied foot as way of explanation. ‘She is pregnant and prefers to stay out in the field but I’ll tempt her with something nice’

Nana moo’s a greeting in the dim light. I can just make out her round shape and huge horns before she plods obediently into the stable and the smell of fresh hay fills the air.

I fall into my comfortable bed exhausted.

That night I dream of falling asleep in a small caravan listening to the sound of the wild sea and the rain drumming on the roof. Its interior has dusky rose colored cushions and an old fashioned wooden interior.

Not for one minute, while I slumbered peacefully, did I imagine the nightmare that lay ahead.

Nana’s meadow with the neighbor’s house in the back ground

 

 

 

 

 

A barge, A yurt and whatever you are having yourself.

Tags

camping., caravans, connemara, fishing, painting, tramps, travellers, writing

A friend of mine lives in a small cul de sac of pretty red bricked houses at the end of which is a well mowed green area watched over by an ancient larch tree.

It is a rather grand part of town. The houses are well maintained with manicured gardens and wisteria trailing artfully around the doors.

Recently she told me of how an old man had arrived and standing under the tree eased his bag off his shoulders.

He then proceeded to unpack some rolled up cardboard and spread it onto the ground. On top of the cardboard he carefully placed a large piece of tin foil and finally a sleeping bag which had no zip.

Watched with curiosity and maybe slight alarm from behind the french lace curtains of the various windows, he eased off his shoes and then his socks which he hung carefully over the lower branches of the great tree.

No one approached him and he whistled a merry tune as he went about his business.

Daylight faded and so did the interest of the residents of the cul de sac, plus they were the polite type who didn’t like to cause a scene.

All the same, they double checked their locks that night.

The man, I shall call him a tramp not because he had a long beard and his coat looked as though it needed a good wash but because the word ‘tramp’ to me means someone who spends his life walking, an admirable trait, had a small dog with him. A terrier of sorts.

And the last thing he did before he lay down for the night on his makeshift bed was to tie the dog’s leash around his ankle. The dog then curled up happily at the foot of his master.

The idea of this last manoeuvre was presumably if approached at night the dog would jump up barking and in doing so alert the man.

The night passed peacefully and in the morning the tramp was, once again, watched with interest as he placed another piece of tinfoil on the ground . This, my friend told me, he filled with twigs and a few cones from the tree, which he then lit and when he had a nice hot fire going, he placed a battered old pan on it and proceeded to fry up a load of rashers and sausages.

Thats where he made his mistake!

That’s when he passed the unspoken acceptance barrier.

A makeshift bed on the ground is one thing, but a fire means a home and a sign of settling in and the good people of the well to do area, though prepared to turn a blind eye to an overnight stay, could not tolerate anything that looked more permanent!

By the time he had finished his fry (half of which he shared with his dog) the guards had arrived. and he was ‘moved along’.

‘Do you know who reported him?’ I asked my friend.

She shrugged ‘Probably one of the men. I’d say it’s a long time since a fried rasher was allowed in any of houses round here, their wives watch their cholesterol like  hawks. they were probably jealous!’

I thought a lot about the tramp and which was the most undignified thing for him. Sleeping in the open, or the indignity of being hustled along by the guards?.

I’d imagine the latter.

The next time I was invited for coffee, I stood for a while under the tree and wondered what would happen if I, a normally dressed person, slept under it for the night and made my coffee on a small fire in the morning. Would  the guards be called or would I be left in peace?

‘Don’t you dare’ my friend laughed over coffee when she saw the gleam in my eye.

There are many places I would love to live in before I die, and though under a tree is not one of them, there are a few near enough (once when coming through a park I noticed a very cosy clump of laurels that had a dry circle of earth in the center underneath the canopy of glossy leaves and the thought struck me momentarily that if I got locked in the park by mistake I’d have a good place to sleep for the night).

To those of you interested , here is my list of appealing abodes: A yurt, a barge, a tree house(though i’m getting a bit too old for scaling a rope ladder) a vintage caravan.

I often wonder if their is a bit of traveller* in my blood, but, coming from norman stock, that is highly unlikely.

We were trampers of sorts. With our sturdy legs we traipsed uncomplaining across England, stopping for a while near oxfordshire before arriving and settling in royal meath and becoming ‘more irish than the irish themselves’

Though….

When my second youngest sister was getting married, the reception was held in an country house hotel in connemara.

Right on the sea.

The hotel and church was far from Dublin, and we, being Peppards, saw the opportunity of making a weekend of it and mass booked the rooms.

As we queued at the reception to register and get our keys, a conversation was overheard between my mother and the receptionist;

My Mother (gazing round at the foyer) ‘ oh such a lovely place you have here’

The receptionist leaning over her desk confidently ‘it is indeed! but a bit shabby, needs a bit of refurbishment’

My mother( regarding the comfy old couches surrounding a fire) ‘Oh no I wouldn’t touch it. It’s gorgeous as it is’.

Then equally confidingly she leans forward and says ‘we’re used to the caravan you know’

The receptionists eyebrows shot up under her fringe! ‘Goodness is this a travellers wedding?’ she asked

My mother needless to say was horrified…….

I better add here that my parents loved to head away in their little caravan to connemara where my father would fish and paint watercolours of the various lakes and rivers they camped at, and my Mother would knit and read to her heart’s content.

A sort of traveller’s life I suppose you could call it.

the end

*Traveller; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Travellers

The Power of attraction: This story is for you Mom.

Tags

caravans, connemara, fishing, knitting, mackerel, power of attraction, snorkelling, wine, writers

Let me get this right! Everything I got (or didn’t get) everything good (or bad) that has happened to me, I brought on myself by the power of attraction. The reason I don’t win the Lotto to buy my little cottage in the west is not because the chance of choosing the correct numbers is one in eight million but because deep down I don’t think I’m worthy of having such a place. that is if the theory of the power of attraction is anything to go by.

And I do believe there is an element of truth in it so give me a second while I try and banish those unworthy thoughts from my head. If I really want to that is ….

~

My mother is a great believer in the power of attraction but she has another name for it.

She simply calls it ‘coincidences’.

You think about something and it happens.

She often spoke of writing a book about her coincidences but maybe her love of reading took up the time she could have spent writing.

So when I speaking to her on the phone today I told her I would write about one that I remembered her telling us about.

It took place maybe sixteen years ago

Picture this: My Mom, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, hair wrapped around her head in two plaits and my Dad, who would have been at the early stages of the chronic illness that killed him in the end (renal failure) with his colourful woolly hat (my mother was a wonderful knitter, another reason for her not to have time to write) covering his white hair.

They are sitting together in their little two berth caravan perched as near to the sea as they can physically get away with without toppling into the water, in the middle of nowhere on a sunny summers eve.

The reason they are inside is it has been an incredible day for the west of Ireland and they are trying to escape the heat.

They have the front window open as high as it can go, a bit like the serving window of a chipper van, and a cool evening breeze is coming in off the sea.

My dad has his binoculars out and is watching a boat making its way slowly across the bay.

Mom is relaxing back, eyes closed, listening drowsily to his running commentary.

‘For gods sake they all have life jackets on. How can you enjoy a spin out in a boat encumbered with a hot life jacket, complete eejits’ My dad was well used to boats.

He could swim and was not afraid of the water and we eight children who spent our days with him rowing him around various lakes, never wore life jackets either and none of us were ever lost to the water.

‘Louis’ my mom said mildly, rousing herself from her stupor ‘Everyones different,  after all’ she continued smiling ‘Not many men think your boat snorkel trick normal’.

My dad had made a habit of rowing himself out into the middle of the bay, pulling in the oars, putting on a mask and snorkel and sticking his head underwater so that he could watch fish and hermit crabs, textures of seaweed and all other manner of things that snorkelers snorkel for without getting the rest of himself wet.

A bizarre and alarming sight for anyone on the beach to behold, as one end of the dingy and my fathers arse would be way up in the air.

‘I think my snorkeling method is ingenious’ He sniffed.

My dad did not like to be laughed at.

‘Have it your own way but remember you could be dead with your head hanging in the water, and I wouldn’t have a clue’ my mother was struggling to squeeze out of the small space between the seat and the table.

‘Well’ my father retorted ‘what difference would it make then, you wouldn’t be able to swim that far to save me, and I always wanted to die at sea anyway’

‘I’m going to make some tea’  My mother for ever the peacemaker, did not rise to the bait, but busied herself lightening the tiny gas stove and filling the kettle from the water can by the door.

Dad put down his binoculars and started to complete a fly he was tying and Mom picked up her book ‘The green cockatrice’ and settled herself on the seat while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Peace reigned again in their little home broken only by the throb of the boat engine and my mothers interested noises as she turned the pages.

I should mention here that my parents made this journey every year, usually with a string of us in tow, a larger caravan and an assortment of tents and boats and whatever family pet was in vogue at the time. (I was once fooled when encouraged to bring my large family of pet mice along and some mouse hating member of the family let them loose in a field never to be found again. Such trickery was common in my family)

This was the first year my fathers precious but ancient volvo estate would pull the two berth caravan purchased for just the two of them.

They did the five hour journey in just under two days. Driving along at a snails pace looking at this and that, delighted for once to be without their unruly brood.

They camped the night on the side of the road at the ballinahinch lakes. Two elderly fragile people with not much between them and the elements and with no fear in their hearts.

But back to the caravan

‘We should really go to the shops’ My mom sighed as the kettle began to boil loudly. She was rooting in a cupboard. ‘

‘We’ve only got the brown bread I made this morning (the caravan had a small oven, My Dad would only eat homemade bread) and butter! There might be an egg. Its really too nice an evening to go anywhere by car’.

My dad finished winding the silver thread around the head of the fly and snipped the last knot with a flourish and began packing away his fly tying equipment.

‘I’m too tired to go up’ He stretched lazily ‘But what I wouldn’t give now for a glass of red wine’

‘And a few mackerel to go with the bread’ My mom was feeling hungry now.

With that a hand appeared through the open window, waving a bottle of red wine, the hand was swiftly followed by a smiling face.

‘May! Louie!’ A voice called ‘Woohoo anyone at home?’

My dad nearly jumped out of his trousers with fright but my mom recognised the face and gave a shout of pleasure  ‘Eithne! how are you? how did you get here?, we didn’t hear a car?’

‘Oh’ Eithne leaned in and plonked the bottle of wine on the table. ‘We came over in our new boat, we have some Mackerel too, Bob’s just cleaning them down at the shore’.

She nodded her head towards the sea where a figure was bent over a bucket and a flock of seagulls were jostling for space nearby.

‘This is unbelievable’ said my mom ‘Louis and I were just saying how we would love some wine and mackerel and here you are with both’

She stood shaking her head in disbelief as my dad scooted out from behind the tiny table and rooted in a cupboard for the bottle opener and some glasses,

‘What a coincidence’ her face was almost split in two with the widest of smiles.

Wait’ll, I open the door for you’ She shimmied past her husband and headed to the other end of the caravan.

When she opened the caravan door there was an elderly woman standing beside Eithne.

‘This is Elizabeth Hickey, she is a writer’ Eithne introduced the silver haired woman to my mother

‘Come in and sit down, apologies for the smallness of space’ My Mom lifted her book out of the way and let the two women slide along the seat.

By this time My dad had not only glasses and bottle opener on the table but plates and knives and forks as well.

‘I must tell you about that book in a minute’ My mom had seen Elizabeth eyeing it curiously.

Within minutes Bob arrived up with the cleaned mackerel and the four were sitting around the table sipping wine, chatting and nibbling at my mothers freshly baked bread while my mother stood frying the mackerel fillets in butter.

Chat and laughter and the glorious smell of freshly fried fish drifted out of the open caravan window as my mother slid the last of the fillets onto a plate. Then sitting down herself on a stool at the end of the table she joined the vibrant conversation interspersed with sounds of delighted munching and slurping of wine.

My dad raised his glass ‘To boats and the sea and rescues by friends’

‘Yes good friends and camping and wine’ Bob added.

‘To fishermen and writers’ Eithne raised her glass too and they all clinked companionably.

‘Oh Speaking of writers’ My mother lifted up the book from where she had shoved it out of the way.

She turned to the woman on her left.

‘Elisabeth, this is a most fascinating book. Are you are interested in History?’ She held up the book for her neighbour to see.’ Its about the  theory of how Shakespeare may well have been an Irishman, incredible stuff’.

Eithne, about to take a sip of wine, exploded with laughter into her glass instead.

‘What?’ My Mom and Dad looked puzzled. ‘Whats so funny’?

Eithne wiped her eye’s

‘You’re talking to the Author’ She said at last when she had managed finally to catch her Breath.

My Mom’s mouth fell open in disbelief ‘That can’t be’ she said.

She looked from Eithne to Elizabeth, her mouth still open.

‘Three coincidences on the same day? Impossible! Anyway look!  Its written by someone called Basil Iske’

‘Basil Iske is my pseudonym’ Elizabeth Hickey smiled.

Maybe My Mom fell off the stool at that point, maybe they all fell off their seats laughing at her amazement.

She continued to tell this story for many years afterwards.

It is her favourite mainly because though she had many more coincidental incidences she never again had so many on the same day or in a more beautiful place.

THE END

http://www.amazon.com/The-green-cockatrice-Basil-Iske/dp/B007F71V5E

The middle of nowhere where my parents loved to head to with or without their large brood.

A mild case of familial kerfuffle (as seen through the eyes of the kerfuffler)

Tags

caravans, families, poetry

Here’s a poetic snippet.

Forgive me dear family, It’s no reflection on you.

I wrote this piece one June when, through no fault of anyone’s, not even my own, the yellow bicycle and I lived in a caravan for a time, beside my mothers apple tree.

For a while it caused some familial kerfuffle but as with all acute cases of mild kerfufflism, it cured itself with time and a sense of humour.

WHAT I SEE FROM MY CARAVAN WINDOW

After all the fuss 

my view

is not of my sisters house

or my mothers terrace

but of the chestnut tree,

frothy with ladies dressed in candlewick gowns

balancing on large green leafy hands.

Like Victorian acrobats they toss and sway and swoon hysterically,

as the summer breeze 

cause the chestnut leaves 

to quiver.

A squirrel sits and watches my mothers two dogs

and spits the odd beechnut in their direction

and they go wild and bark and attempt do the impossible

(I’ve yet to see them climb the tree but its not from want of trying).

To my left a single bee works the fading apple blossom,

ensuring that next month my view will be,

not of house or terrace or chestnut tree

but of apple.

Further left is the old duck pond, 

Who, almost dry from lack of use, is overgrown with yellow flags. 

Those sword like leaves no better able to defend that place than I,

as we watch with concern

the approach of the rampaging bindweed convolvulus arvensis.

(I’ve seen it devour a rusty bicycle in one sitting)

I fear it has its eye on my caravan

and will not be surprised to wake one morning

and find my self entangled in the blooming stuff.

Meanwhile by the beech hedge,

overgrown with nettle and queen Anne’s  lace,

Sharon’s washing flapping.

Straight ahead the glass house stands,

with its tomatoes peppers and aubergines,

where Italian Antoinette,

who has no English, made her needs be known

as she gathered pots from distant corners of the garden

and filling them with clay,  pressed and prodded and planted.

Then, with capable hands on hips ordered them to grow.

I placed them reverently in the glasshouse

and later when she had gone

I watered them with care

(for fear she would return).

She did

On Skype!

and when she finished talking to her son,

I held up a pot for her to see how well they had flourished

and she clapped her hands and smiled,

(a small distorted face in the corner of a large screen)

And all the while the finches flit by the old pear tree

where long ago we hung

and viewed the world from upside down.

THE END.