13th July: a vagrant's Paradise

            Georgie and I drive back to Leicestershire and have an arm-in-arm walk through Bradgate Park (photo) where we eat butterscotch ice-cream alongside the River Lin, take photographs of prancing deer and read about the history of the park where a former owner had the glorious name of Ulf.  Then it’s an hour in Loughborough library for me, perusing audio books, while Georgie tries on half the stock in Top Shop.  After dropping her back at her dad’s I have a big consideration. Where to sleep tonight?

            Can I stay in Bill’s spare room?  He says No.  For the first time since I’ve had no permanent address I feel vulnerable. I drive to The Range in Leicester, buy a domestic life in the form of Tupperware containers, plastic coat-hangers and, to please my mother, a large tub of pepper to use in case of attempted rape.  Sitting in the van I browse my new campsite app and find a site at Saddington, a village about eight miles south of Leicester.  I phone and ask if I can book in. Maybe it’s the hour, gone eight, but the woman answering the phone seems surprised to hear me.  Perhaps people with campervans tend to book three months in advance and perhaps people who live in vans don’t book official sites.  After stopping off at the Sainsbury’s petrol station in Oadby for red wine, quiche and a Snicker I arrive at the campsite at nine.  I drive in with trepidation not knowing the form, feeling as out of place as a single human trying to crash Noah’s Ark.  I’m planning to spend the rest of the month, the year, my life, sleeping like this, but tonight is my first. I’ve got to get through it and I know the second time will be easier.  “Are you okay?” asked the nice lady.  How can strangers tell that I’m vulnerable? 

            “Yes.” I am really, but just hope that she doesn’t look at me any more sympathetically. She probably thinks I’ve had a violent row at home and escaped abuse by leaping into the family camper for safety. 

            “Do you want a hook up?” she asks, which I think means, do I want electricity, rather than an introduction to a blind date, but I’ve not done this before and I don’t want to look like a fumbling fool in the near dark. I wouldn’t know what to put where and the electricity comes with a token to add to the first-timer complication.  I decline everything, not just the electricity but the onsite showers and kitchen too.

Wearing washed-out, old cotton pyjamas I snuggle down into my sleeping bag, pull Georgie’s duvet over the top, play Tom Waits on my iPad, (never have I felt so much empathy with his songs of a vagrant’s paradise), eat my picnic and sink two thirds of the bottle of screw top wine.  This isn’t exactly a typical ‘life is good’ moment, but it’s a step in the direction for me. Before I go to sleep I text Farmer Darcy who lives only three or four miles away.

            Me: “Greetings from a campsite near Saddington blah blah…”

            FD:  “Blah blah let me know next time and I will cycle over with a bottle and no lights.”  But I don’t want there to be a next time, I want to keep moving.