Jo Dyson - Van life, my arsè

23/04/2023

28/08/2021

True tales from the road: The purists

My grandmother was a lemon sucker from way back. Blunt was her delivery and cutting were her words. Not indulging my emotions, she’d tell me to put my bottom lip away, to stop sulking and to be grateful. She said words like nonsense and rubbish and codswallop. If she were a plant, she would be a cactus. With spikes and prickles, she kept you at bay.

To understand my grandmother, I had to understand the era in which she grew up. Living through war and depression, her generation used what they had to make it work. Safer to be pragmatic than emotional, they toughened. They put mercurochrome on open wounds, they ignored spiteful words, and they didn’t take themselves seriously. They were grateful for hand-me-downs, for a job, and for a husband who returned from the war undamaged. They spent hours at the kitchen table perming each other’s hair and chain-smoking Benson and Hedges which they sent us to the corner to store to buy for them.

As the children and grandchildren that were raised by this generation, we were expected to toughen up too. If we cried, we’d be given something to cry about. If we got in trouble at school, we were in twice as much trouble when we got home. If we didn’t eat all our dinner, it would be served cold for breakfast. You didn’t answer back, you asked for permission to leave the table and you didn’t dare throw a tantrum. As a result, even though it came at the cost of our emotional well-being, we became resilient. This generation knew that when life gets hard, and it does get hard, resilience is our greatest defence and the greatest gift they could give us.

This is what I remind myself of whenever I encounter the purists of the camping community. These travellers love the vastness and embrace the nothingness. Dressed in King Gees and flannos, they are the masters of necessity. Not wanting nor needing the modern conveniences of today’s vans, purists keep it simple. Tea brewed in the billy with a golden-syrup dumpling for breakfast, and a dinner of snags and spuds wrapped in foil and cooked on the coals is soul food to a purist. Leaning into the stillness, they know that nature unveils itself when we are silent. Black cockatoos and wild budgies, dingo tracks and frilled-neck lizards, galaxies of stars and glorious sunrises reveal themselves to the purist.

Spend any time in the camping community and chances are, you’ll encounter a purist. When you’re in the middle of nowhere and you see a lone van pulled up 500 metres further down the road from everyone else – that’s a purist. When you hear someone say they’d rather machete their head off than camp near other people - that’s a purist. When you read comments on a social media post about how the red dirt sticks to your feet and they say - if you don’t like it, then stay home; or harden up princess - it’s only dirt, not poison; or be grateful you have feet - that’s a purist.

These candid comments used to hurt my feelings until I recognised them as Nan’s mob. When I'm complaining about the dirt, the distance or the drudgery of hours on the road - they’ve got three words for me. Nonsense! Rubbish! Codswallop! After all, resilience is what you need when you’re on the road, save the emotion for the breath-taking scenery and the magnificent sunsets.

Expect a purist to show sympathy for the challenges of van life?
My arse!

16/08/2021

True tales from the road: There are no secrets in a shared bathroom

The amenity block in the van park we just stayed in had a modesty curtain separating the toilets from the showers. The cubicles were not designed for changing in and so you had to dress and undress in the common area. Hence, the curtain. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, when you first see it, you want to take a p*ek and see what’s behind the curtain.
I was behind the curtain getting ready to have a shower.
Doris, having just arrived at the park, made a beeline straight for the dunny. Making no attempt to mask the sound, at first I found all the whizzpopping and quogwinkling confronting. But the more she frothbuggled and whoopsywiffled, the more I admired her ability to let go - both literally and figuratively. As someone who deals daily with s**t shame, perhaps I too could learn to let go a little and let out an occasional crodsquinkle.
Fully undressed, I was just about to step into the shower cubicle when Doris, who was curious about what was behind the curtain, popped her head around for a look. From her reaction, she found my titsjigglers and fannyphoofer just as confronting as I’d found her snufflebombing, or at least that’s what I first thought as I watched the red heat of shock spread across her face. Having heard her in all her vulnerability, it seemed only fair that she had seen me in mine.
I was standing under the hot water when Doris’s obvious embarrassment suddenly made sense. Until she popped her head around that curtain, poor Dorris must have thought she had been alone on the loo.
Vulnerability on the road isn’t just about finding safe places to camp or making sure there’s enough fuel to get you from one outback town to the next, it's seeing your fellow camper’s wangdangler and squifzippler and occasionally letting out a crodsquinkle in the company of others.

Van life, my arsestiffler!

13/08/2021

True tales from the road: I can tell you what we don’t want

There are van parks that are not much more than a plot of dusty dirt in the back paddock. You’re grateful for a patch of dirt because unless you want to pull off somewhere on the side of the road, it can be a long way between places to stop overnight. Then there are van parks that cater for your every need with restaurant-quality camp kitchens and an amenity block with piles of fresh bath mats to stand on as you dry off from the shower. My favourite parks are the ones that have a rec room. A lounge is a luxury for a girl who sits in the open doorway of the van and a ping pong table lets Carl catch up on some wins he’s been missing in our nightly round of Sequence.
This is the type of park we pulled into in Onslow on the West Australian coast. In addition to a rec room that boasted ten lounges and a ping pong table, it had a pool table, two flat-screen TV’s each with a Playstation and an eat all you can buffet with take-home containers of ice cream. This place, though small, was next level. This is why I was so dumbfounded when standing outside the bathroom taunting me, was something no camper ever needs to see - digital scales.
Granted, the scales were outside the toilets which at least gave the chance to empty the storage containers before weighing in but that’s my point - who wants to come face to face with their weight while they are on holiday?
I could see how scales would appeal to Scott and Kerrie who were doing the lap on pushbikes but most of us haven’t been riding - we’ve been sitting for thousands of kms as we’ve driven across the country not to mention the eclairs we’ve said yes to at the bakery and the snacks we’re constantly grazing on as we drive. I was already struggling to accept this softer, rounder version of my body without having to know the actual number I'd expanded into.
I knew I could treat the scales like that family member in the grocery store that you don’t want to get stuck talking to and act like I hadn’t seen them. But I had. I should have walked on, but just like I continually stick my tongue in a toothache, I leant into the pain.
And painful it was.
I was sitting on the banana chair by the pool thinking about how I might be able to reduce my serving size and increase my exercise when Barry, who had just arrived with his big rig, asked me where the toilets were. As he set off following my directions, I wondered what he would choose when he discovered the scale demon.
Watching him return head down, shoulders rounded in defeat, his demeanour said it all.
“Stood on the scales?” I offered in commiseration.
“I knew I shouldn’t have,” he said with the regret of someone who had just eaten his way to the bottom of a kebab and realised what a bad idea that had been.
If you’re a park owner, and you’re wondering what your guests want?
We don’t want scales.

Van life, my wider fuller arse!

12/08/2021

True tales from the road: You no get big banana

I was brought up to offer my bus seat to my elders so I experience inner conflict whenever I’m sprawled out all over the only banana chair at the caravan park pool and someone senior to me turns up. Am I suppose to offer the seat to my elders because I have to say, when you travel with grey nomads, everyone is your elder. I’ll never get to have it to myself and somedays, that's not just a banana chair - it's my only refuge from what is another hot, dry day in the middle of nowhere.

When I was a kid, I was expected to play outside for the day and I was only allowed to come in for lunch. For some, this freedom to be outside away from the adults was what they loved most about their childhood. Not me. As a fair-skinned redhead who wasn’t particularly active, having to spend the day outside felt like torture. It was either hot or cold and a day is really long when you’re seven and you’re not yet allowed to leave the yard.

One hot Australian Christmas, Santa delivered a metal swing-set to our backyard and from that day on, it was my mother’s answer if I complained about being bored outside all day by myself.
“Go and play on the swings,” she’d say from the air-conditioned lounge room.
It didn’t matter that the slippery dip was hot enough to brand a cow and that the rusty swing sounded like the screeching shower scene from Psycho as I swung back and forth. I'm sure my imagination developed as a result of having to self entertain but all I remember was callouses on my hands from hours swinging on the monkey bars wondering when I could go back inside. Van life can make me feel this way. The sun is up and I have to play outside all day.

It’s not that I don’t like some time outside but it's hard not being able to go home when I’ve had enough. With no air-conditioning and no living area to sit in, the van is not our pseudo apartment. It's a Bikram studio, especially in the top end where the temperature doesn’t drop below 33 degrees. All these hours on the road have not done my fitness any favours and so I huff and puff my way to the waterholes which are always a hike away and not just laterally, but vertically. I'm constantly sweating like Rolf Harris in a courtroom and the heat makes me lethargic. But, just like seven-year-old Jo, I have to stay outside all day.

When we pull up at a caravan park, and I spot a banana chair by the pool, I feel like there is a god and she loves me. I get there early so I can find a spot in the shade and I set up camp for the day. I write, I read and I hold onto my bladder for fear of losing that glorious seat. For that day, the banana chair is my Hilton, my Hyatt, my home. I'm no longer 7 year old Jo with my bum burning on the swing-set, I’m the Queen of comfort Jo sitting in the lap of luxury.

And so to my elders who turn up at the pool with nowhere to sit, I promise I will give you my seat on the bus but give up this banana chair?
My Arse!

12/08/2021

We’ve pulled up at a free camp where the cattle graze amongst the campers halfway between No-where and Bumfark. Carl finally put the s**t shovel to use cleaning up the fly attracting cow patties so we could set up camp. It’s so hot but in the land of the croc, you have to either be brave or stupid to swim in the creek. I’m neither so I’ll be relating to the wicked witch of the west who also knew what it meant to be melting.

12/08/2021

Carl was surprised when I added my bra to the collection. Apparently, it wasn’t supposed to be the one I was wearing.

09/08/2021

True tales from the road: Wanting connection

Sometimes we are so remote, even Internet with all its satellites can’t reach us. Even though we have books on board and DVD’s we can play, in those times when we are so far out in hyperspace that we are no longer in Internet’s forcefield, I become distressed Princess Leia desperately pleading into my R2D2 phone.
“Help me 4 bars of 3G - you’re my only hope!” I cry.
4G would be divine but here in the outback, I’ll trade two bars of 4G for four bars of 3G any day.
With Internet connection, I have Facebook, Netflix and Youtube. I have audiobooks and playlists and podcasts. I have phone calls from home and face time chats with friends. I can Google the answers to important questions like what was the name of the two old hecklers in the muppets, how is salt mined and how do you spell Dirk Diggler.
The Hans Solo of our Millennium Falcon, Carl uses WIKI camps, Google maps and fuel finder to navigate our flight path. He has access to reviews on where to avoid and advice on what to do when the fridge stops working or the diesel heater s**ts itself.
It’s not that we can't live without Internet’s connection, but maybe it's like watching p**n - it's much easier to reach the final destination with it, than without it.
May the force be with us.
�
Van life, my arse!

08/08/2021

True tales from the road: Harden up princess, this is an online forum

I wrote on the camping forum - I look ridiculous trying to keep my feet clean of red dirt as I walk back to the van in thongs after a shower.
Eighty experts advised putting a bucket of water at the van door.
Seventy problem-solvers recommended I wear socks, boots, plastic bags and surgical covers on my feet.
Sixty empathisers knew how I felt.
Fifty encouragers asked when the book was coming out.
Forty Covid lock-downers wished they could swap with me.
Thirty pioneers told me to harden up.
Twenty gratituders reminded me to be grateful that I had feet at all.
Ten grouches told me if I didn’t like it, I should stay at home.
Five up-standers stood up and reminded everyone to be nice.
Two admins were notified.
One shared love for travel bought us together as a community because on the road,
Zero farks are given.

Van life, my arse!

07/08/2021

True tales from the road: What are we going to do today?

You know there isn’t going to be much to do when you’re sitting on the loo and you hear Beryl and Doris talking about how much they enjoyed the shell museum.
You see some incredible sights as you do a lap of the map but there are just as many ordinary nothingness places in between them.
We have seen trees so tall that our necks hurt to look up and waterfalls so mighty that they push you away with their force. We have seen oceans so blue that they glow and dirt so red that it gets into your bloodstream. We have seen Indigenous Australians in a way that our schoolbooks could never have described and we’ve met fellow travellers who would be right at home on Ramsey Street.
And then there have been days that were never-ending. Days in the middle of nowhere and a rest spot with a tree and some shade from the top end sun is a gift. Days when it’s too hot to do anything, even if there was something to do, so you laze in half stupor under the awning just waiting for the cool to come. There are communities you visit that are so remote you struggle to understand the appeal in the isolation and coastal towns that are battered by winds and frequented by crocodiles rendering the beaches unusable for swimming or fishing.
Unlike what the Instavan’ers would have us believe, there are a lot of days of having to find something to fill your time with, and so, when you arrive at a town and they have a shell museum - that’s a win.
Van life, my arse!

04/08/2021

True tales from the road: Things that wake you up

“Every morning you get to wake up to birdsong,” said John on the phone as he imagined what life on the road must be like for us.
He was right. Birds do wake us up.
Yesterday it was a loud proud rooster who from the first spec of sun, repeatedly boasted about what he going to do with his big cock-a-doodle.
Last week we awoke to the cacophony of corellas - the only bird I’ve ever known to make the sulpha crested cockatoo sound quiet. Louder than a passel of Harley Davidsons, these flockers woke us with a wall of sound that would have impressed Phil Spector.
This morning it was the old bird who thought she’d put a load of washing on at the crack of dawn to beat the wait for the machines and claim prime position on the line.
And at the last van park, we were awoken by the pelican who packed up, hitched on and drove out at 6 am so he could secure a spot at the next place as it’s first in best dressed out here.
The other night, Carl and I were awoken at 2 am by an exotic South American chick who was very upset with her boyfriend, Tim. In her rich accent, she demanded he look at her and tell her on her face why he had looked at another girl’s b***s. Poor Tim, I guess they won’t be going back to the Roebuck t***y bar tomorrow night.
Yes, John. You’re right. We do get woken up every morning by birdsong.

Van life, my arse!

31/07/2021

True tales from the road: Part 2 - Return of the herd

Last week my musings on the characters you meet on the road struck a chord with 14K of you responding across two different camping pages. Like roll call at school, Doris and Wally, Mr and Mrs Have a Chat and Marg all put their hands up. Trent’s girlfriend acknowledged her laugh as annoying and Kylie apologised for her rowdy kids at the pool. Katelyn outed her father Trevor, who we all know affectionately as the morning television bastard and Ellen owned up to leaving her washing on the line all day. Wives dobbed in their Barry big rig husbands faster than Beryl could shoot a dirty look for coming too close to her annex. Forever YOLO’s, they tagged whole groups of friends and Jason posted a photo with his daughter Willow. The only thing funnier than seeing you all dob yourselves in was discovering the other Jo’s out there who are also observing the herd. You asked for more and so, here is a compilation of your comments mixed in with some of my observations of the expanded cast of characters you’re likely to meet in the herd.

Mark runs the park. Between COVID and the Instavan generation of campers, he’s never seen so many of us on the road. He packs us in tighter than Tony Abbott’s budgie on Bondi beach because later when it gets really busy, he doesn’t want to have to turn anyone away. Mark’s busy with Karen who's upset about the state of the toilets. It’s been hard getting employees now all the backpackers are gone. Good thing Karen has an ensuite in the van where she can sit and write a review about the park.

Peter’s probably the first person you met as you pulled in. The self-appointed host welcomes every new arrival finding out where they’re from and where they’re going. A numbers man, he studies the fuel consumption, mileage and prices like a punter studying the form guide. Do us all a favour and don’t get him started on politics or Covid. His wife is Jane and her BFF is Marylin with the hearing problem. That’s why they have to park across from each other and talk so loudly. I'm always a little envious of Jane and Marilyn with their white shirts, chunky jewellery and hairdryers. They remind me of what I used to look like when I had more than three outfits on rotation and before the bore water dried out my hair. I must say that their gossip of what the young ones got up to last night certainly made my quiet sit on the loo so much more interesting. With their fairy lights and laser beams illuminating the trees, these loud proud YOLO’s are booked in for 3 months as they do every winter.

There’s Derek who empties his hose in the lake and Terry who pumps water from the creek to water the grass. With his blower vac in hand and his rake ready to go, Terry is the Dirk Diggler of campsite lawn p**n. That was until Beryl shot him down for blowing all over her freshly washed cottontails that were hanging over the pop-up clothesline. Even Oscar, the resident grouch, thought that was gold.

Speaking of grouches, Bill likes to camp in the back paddock as far away from everyone else that he can. He’ll tell you that he’d rather be hacked to death by a machete-wielding maniac in his free camp before he’d join the herd. He is a loner, but just like every black sheep in the family, he’s still a part of the pack- even if he won’t admit it. When the night is late and we need somewhere to pull up, we are grateful to be near Bill. He understands that there’s safety in numbers and so he doesn’t mind - but park too close to him and you’ll read all about it in the morning on the camping forum. Bill and Barry are brothers. Bill thinks Barry’s a wa**er, that’s not always true. Both brothers are good to have around when things go wrong. And things do go wrong. Just ask Wally who still can't understand how he stuffed his angles this morning and wedged the back of the van behind the bloody tree.

Gwen travels on her own with the little dog. She’s in the motorhome parked by the loos. She lost her husband 10 years ago so had to sell their van as while she couldn’t manage it on her own, she wants to keep travelling. Good on her. Gwen has been doing it tough lately but you won’t hear her complain - life is too short for a liberated lady like her. She’s got this whole country to see and her only worry is where to next.

Like Kylie and Jason, Carly and Justin also have a mob of kids but they don’t have a Go Pro or an Instagram account. They have bikes, scooters and a camper trailer that they’ve been taking off road because it, like the kids, is always covered in a layer of dirt. Proud that they discipline their tribe, they tell their children to stop and they sit them in time out on the edge of the pool when needed. For all their effort, Carly and Justin aren’t getting any more peace than Kylie and Jason but who needs peace when you’re building childhood memories to last a lifetime. Thank god for Gladys and Alfred. They’re lovely people in their 70’s who entertain the kids by flying model aeroplanes (which pi**es Barry off), feeding them homemade ANZAC bickies and explaining the Olympics as they watch it on Alfred’s outside telly. Everyone’s glad to have Gladys and Alfred around - we all appreciate the break.

Having stayed out late to snap that Instavan sunset pic through the open tailgate of their vans, the Whizz Bangers come in on dark. Those poor buggers with their small bladders spend half the night going to the toilet. Unlike Beryl who can take a p*e on her self-contained porta-loo without waking anyone except Barry, the whizzing of the van door opening and the bang as it slams shuts makes the whole park think of what Graham Kennedy’s crows once said that got him banned from TV… Faaaaark!

And to think that when I first set off on this lap of the map with Carl, I thought it was going to be just the two of us on this adventure.

My arse!

Thank you to Fran Brown who gave us Mark; Wendy Taylor for Marilyn; Ellen Fitzgerald, Elaine n Jeff Smith and Stephen Gorin for Derek and Terry; Sharon Davis for Trevor the 6am banger; Grant Grosser and Sam Trabant for Gladys and Alfred; Sandra Lawrence for Pete, Jane and Gwen who also came with a big dollop of Trish Roots. It was a delight to write with all you Jo’s.

30/07/2021

True Tales from the Road: The herd

We try to solo camp whenever we can but sometimes you have to join the herd. All matter of things bring you back to the pack. Sometimes you don’t want to risk the fine of stopping overnight when you’re in ‘no camping overnight’ towns. Sometimes you are in remote towns where for safety, the van parks lock the gates at 7pm and patrol the barbwire topped perimeter throughout the night. Sometimes you just need a shower or a swim or to do a load of washing. No matter where you are in Australia or what brought you back to the drove, you’ll always find the same mob at the campsite.

When I first joined the herd, I was easily annoyed by everything. Naively, I’d thought tolerance and tongue holding was associated with workplaces, not holiday destinations. Like Charlie Drake singing ‘My Boomerang Won’t Come Back’ on NAIDOC day - boy did I get that wrong. Now that I've done some time with the flock, I’m starting to understand this Sesame Street of characters.

There’s Barry with the big rig. He’s been towing vans since you were a mishap in your mother’s morals. With all that experience, he knows exactly how everyone should have reversed their vans, secured their awnings, and positioned their solar. A regular contributor to caravanning forums, you can ask Barry anything because he knows everything. He’s already been everywhere you want to go - twice - and he has the stories to prove it. I used to get annoyed when Barry would run his generator in the afternoon, but now I understand he’s cooling the van for his bride, Beryl, whose nights are haunted by hot flushes.

I first met Beryl at the clothesline. She was stern-faced and short for words but she could fold a sheet with the elegance of an origami master. Beryl believes in common sense and getting on with it but drive over her power chords or walk through her annex and she’ll give you what for. I like Beryl best when she’s by the pool. She’s the only one brave enough to tell the kids to stop running and to splash somewhere else.

The kids belong to Jason and Kylie. There’s a brood of them and one of them is named Willow. Travelling bloggers, this family loves life on the road. The kids do a couple of hours of school work in the morning while dad uploads his Go-Pro and drone footage to their YouTube channel. By the time they’ve hit the pool, they are ready to burn up some energy. The kids run around playing chasing games, they bang pool noodles together making thunderclaps and they play countless rounds of Marco Polo. When they go, we all exhale grateful for the peace that Jason and Kylie never get.

Whether in the pool or at the bar, Have-a-Chat used to drive me mad when he would engage us in never-ending conversation. Now I want to high five him as I leave my extroverted husband to talk while I sneak away for some introverted alone time.

Marg, who has just come back from a hike that we must do, has a way of making you wish she was your Nana as she tells you all about her grandkids before busting out twenty laps in the pool - no wonder she’s so trim and energetic.

I used to think Doris was hiding in the van because she was antisocial, now I know just prefers to be reading a good book or flicking through Facebook rather than making pointless chit chat that she’s heard a hundred times over. When you see her p*eping through the blinds, she’s not really watching you, she’s checking to see if the coast is clear before she makes a dart for the shower block. Her husband Wally, thinks Barry is a wa**er but only because it’s true.

The YOLO’s happy hour cackles once reminded me of a megaphone left on in a hen house. Now I’m happy they are enjoying the wine they’ll have to give up when they all go back to their AA meetings. Until then, you only live once! Cheers!

No-ones happy when Trent turns up with his ute, his swag and his mates. It’s not so much his loud music or his girlfriend with the annoying laugh we dislike, it's the reminder that we too were once young and arrogant. Now, we are no longer young.

There are still some characters I’m yet to work out like the bastard who bangs around at 6am playing morning television with the window open for everyone to hear and the thoughtless git who leaves their washing on the line for the whole day preventing anyone else from getting theirs dried.

And as for me? I'm Jo. I sit on the banana chair all day and type away on my computer. You would look at me and think she should get off her laptop and enjoy this beautiful country of ours. What? And miss out on taking the p**s out of you lot?

My arse!

30/07/2021

Tales from life on the road: Golden showers

Travelling in a van that doesn’t have an ensuite is a constant game of Where's Wally? Instead of finding a red and white skivvy wearer, we are on the search for showers.

We have a portable shower that runs off a bucket of water which we’ve used when we have been camping in the middle of nowhere. There is something deliciously invigorating about being stark naked in the open air enjoying a hot shower on a cold night. That’s fine when you are camping in the bush or beside a creek but it doesn’t translate so well when you’ve pulled up in a car park in suburbia. The portable hot water system requires access to water supplies that we don’t always have and so, sometimes my shower is a top and tail from a pot of water boiled on the stove. I only once forgot which end of the washcloth was top and which was tail and I've learnt why it matters that that you start from the top and work your way down.

When staying in regional towns, the swimming complex is our best friend. For a $7 entry fee, we get a swim (sometimes a sauna) and a shower. I’ve had some wonderful showers in pools but sometimes, to conserve water, they run off timed push buttons. Eyes closed with a face full of suds, I’ve had the water abruptly stop, leaving me to blindly slide my hands over the shower wall in search of the button. Evidently, I'm willing to compromise for hot water.

When we pull into a town with a hot shower in the public toilets, we are beside ourselves with joy. We high five, fist pump and hug each other like hardcore fans whose team just won Origin. Sometimes these facilities are coin driven and that is where those one-dollar coins that we’ve learnt to hoard like dragons gold, come in handy. On average, you get around 2 min for a dollar. I was reminded that there’s a fine line between frugal and stingy when I had to convince myself that I was worth the extra dollar and to treat myself to an extra 2 minutes in the shower. It wasn’t that I was a tight arse, but rather it would throw my coin ration out. Oh, how my problems have changed.

Sometimes we strike gold and find a town with free hot public showers - but free always come with a price. The ground is probably cold cement, the walls are probably corrugated iron and there’s probably a line up of other travellers waiting their turn. This was the case when we pulled into a free public shower in Tasmania.

As I headed in for my first not-pot shower in 5 days, Doris who was in there before me, warned of a leech lurking under the inside ledge of the shower basin. I thought I was ok sharing the shower with a leech until it was time to actually get in. Armed with only my toothbrush and running hot water, the leech had to go. Using the end that doesn’t go in your mouth, I poked and prodded and flicked the bastard with my toothbrush until at last, I dislodged it. Putting up a good fight, it stretched itself out long and thin and no matter how much I tried to push it towards the plughole, it refused to let go. Bent over, fighting this battle naked in the cold Tasmanian air, never have I (nor Beryl who was waiting in the changeroom) been more grateful for a shower door. Eventually, I managed to flick the leech down the plughole. As I stood victorious under the running hot water, every horror film I’ve ever seen came flooding back to me. What if the leech had stuck to the pipe and was now about to come back up through the drain? That was it - for the rest of the shower, I stared fearfully at the bloody plug hole more paranoid than what I would have been if I had just left the leech on the ledge where I could at least see it.

Caravan park showers have become the luxury of my life. The Mecca of all caravan parks are the ones that have a full-size bath in the family room. At home, I spend most afternoons soaking in the tub, enjoying the bliss that only a hot bath can induce. It’s one of the things I miss the most and so, even though sometimes it means having to remove a short curly hair left from the last soaker before filling the tub, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

While I agree, it’s not the size of a man’s van that matters, it’s what he does with it that counts, it will be golden when Carl finds the extra few inches in our next van to build me an ensuite with my own shower. Until then -

Van life, my arse!