Rebecca Raisin - Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop

As I dillydally with how to begin, he asks:

Do you blog?

While I love reading blogs, I’d never write one. My creativity is in the kitchen, and I don’t pretend otherwise.

No, sorry, I don’t.

Another person joins the site, so I’m betting he’ll welcome them and I’ll be able to read through the amazing threads with eye opening titles like: How I quit my corporate job and now live on fifteen pounds a day and couldn’t be happier. Or: Life after Loss, on the open road. And: My pop-up Pimms van, and how I make money to fund travel. So many stories, so many different versions of life, ones I’d never ever considered. Goose bumps prickle my skin, as if my body knows this is the next course of action for me too. Taking Poppy on an adventure like I promised, and making money along the way, enough to keep me going, until I work out exactly what I’m searching for …

Don’t apologise! A lot of VLs blog about their journey, almost like an online diary to keep track, that’s all. It’s a great way to follow along with those you connect with.

I contemplate his theory. It would be nice to keep a record, keep track of where I go. But I know myself, and I’m more of a reader. Maybe I can keep my own online diary for myself.

Do you blog, Oliver?

His blog might shed light on exactly how this Van Lifers movement works and who he is.

Yes, my blog is oliverstravels.co.uk I mainly post pictures because I’m a photographer. Check it out if you have a mo.

I click the link. Wow . His pictures are truly breathtaking. Stunning snowscapes. And lush green fields. Black and white wedding portraits. I find his ‘About’ page and read his bio. I stop short when I see his profile picture. Oliver is jaw-droppingly handsome. One of those boy-next-door types who grows into his looks and suddenly becomes a heart-stopper. He has brown wavy locks, a trustworthy clear-eyed gaze, and his lips curve into a perfect sweet smile that conjures the idea of romance. Seeing the man behind the words, I feel less suspect about him, and more willing to talk, before I realise how shallow I’m being. While he doesn’t look like a serial killer, that doesn’t mean he isn’t!

Your photography is stunning.

My hands hover over the keyboard. Should I say more? Less? I am clueless with these sorts of interactions and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

Thank you. It keeps me on the road so I’m grateful for that.

I scroll further through his blog, trying to get a handle on where he is, how long he’s been doing this for. There’s not a lot of writing, like he said, it’s mainly photos. I can’t see any other information, no travel route, no other clues as to where he might be. So he must work as he goes, taking photographs for people before moving to the next place. While the idea of no fixed abode terrifies me, I can also see the romanticism in it. The absolute freedom.

Where are you now?

I’m only asking out of politeness. Not because Oliver is a bit of alright.

Ireland …

I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland. In this new strange life of mine, maybe I can go. Really, what’s stopping me from ditching the material possessions and living a simpler life, like all these Van Lifers are doing?

Oliver and I chat for a while longer about this and that before he tells me all about various camp sites where I can stay for next to nothing, stock up on cheap supplies and meet likeminded nomads. I make notes about the locations to research later.

He makes it all sound so easy , as if it’s as simple as readying the van and filling up with fuel.

When I finally sign off we agree to chat again soon and I give myself an imaginary pat on the back for being so social and open when it feels so alien.

After doing a few hours of research myself, Bristol seems like the most logical place to travel to first. It’s just far enough to blow the cobwebs out of Poppy, and not too far to turn back if I chicken out.

When my notice is up at Époque, I’ll pack and get the hell out of here and see where the breeze blows me.

Look at me, making friends and being spontaneous . I blithely ignore the shake in my hands by circling them around a nice steaming cup of passionflower tea, a blend of florals made specifically to calm nerves, promote calm, and induce sleep. Just the ticket for my spinning mind …

* * *

Before long my notice is up and it’s time to leave my job. My career. My safety net. I say my goodbyes at Époque, getting teary when I hug Sally. It’s impossible to imagine not waking with the birds and rushing around London in the morning, just like I’ve done for the last fifteen years. Or coming home after dinner service with heavy legs, and a dull throb in my head. Who will I be, if I’m not a sous-chef at Époque?

Suddenly I feel anchorless. Like those solid walls I built around me are caving in.

Back home, I begin to pack, knowing I’ve only got a few more weeks’ grace, as per our divorce stipulations. The divorce itself won’t settle for aeons, but we’d set out the terms and conditions, and as much as it hurts I will stand by what I promised. I’ll be out of London by April. Callum wanted me to move sooner, offering me a payout at settlement, but I held firm. Their little love nest will have to wait. I need these next few weeks to plan, to come to terms with whatever it is I’m going to do.

I brew a pot of comforting raspberry and thyme tea, hoping it will perk me up. While it steeps, I fire up the laptop and decide to email Oliver for advice.

Hi Oliver,

If one was to set out on a journey, where would I likely go? Are there certain routes for novices, or is it more of an organic thing? I’ve been toying up seriously with the idea of a pop-up tea van …

Thanks for your time.

Rosie

With that done, I sip my tea, and spend an age staring out the window at the relentless March rain. I should be enjoying this time, strolling through Covent Garden, wandering through Hyde Park, eating out at all those new restaurants that have cropped up over the years that I haven’t had a chance to try, but I don’t leave my flat, except to go to the local Marks and Spencer’s and stock up on ready-made meals that I eat half-heartedly.

I don’t have the inclination to cook for myself – it hardly seems worth it – and I realise this is probably the first time in my life that my appetite has waned. Food tastes bland, and I only hope this is a phase. Instead, I sit in front of the TV like a zombie, too disheartened to leave the flat for anything other than wine. I hear the echo of Callum’s recriminations: You’re just like your dad . I’m not. I’m just taking some me time.

I check my email and am surprised to find a response from Oliver already.

Hi Rosie,

It depends on where you want to go, and what your timeline is. The Hay Festival begins in May, and is one of the best, in terms of crowds and length of time. Ten days long, it tends to be a good money spinner for those starting their journey over the summer. If that suits you, you can stock up in Bristol and camp there beforehand, it’s close to the Welsh border.

It seems like a sign that he’s suggested the very same place I’d had my eye on.

That’s where a lot of the festival nomads meet and find travel partners, someone to journey along with on the open road. Worth thinking about. Then you can choose a route (check the attachment for ideas). Along the way you’ll find fairs, and markets and all sorts that tie into the festivals so there’s plenty of work to be had – or not, depending on what your motivations are.