It's autumn, it's warm and the air's full of that beckoning scent of fruit, nuts and mushrooms. Cooking jabbatis over a heather fire at the back of the van, tucked in beside a moorland stream, not a care in the world, is just the sweetest feeling. We might stay here tonight or in an hour or so slip down to the coast, be up for the morning glass. We, means you and I, or just me and my van or you and your van.

Old vans, you've gotta love them. Treat them tender treat them kind, if they're female coax them along, if they're male you can give them a bit of stick. I reckon you discover pretty quick, once you've had some experience that is, whether they're male or female. The point is an old van's got character, got life, dare I say it personality. So we more often than not means the van and me. Now I'm male and my main van is female, she's a real hippie from the 70's, plenty of colour, she's real smooth. But the best thing , is when we're parked up, woodsmoke driftin from the chimney, old black kettle whisperin on the burner, chestnuts fryin on the gas ring, jabbatis puffing up on that heather fire and then all of a sudden a girl comes cycling along the empty road on an old black bike. All women are girls to me, whatever their age. She'll pull over , all smiles at the site of me and my van playing gypsy. Like as not she'll be dressed in some uniform that says where she's at in life, she'll have something in her hair and man she'll be full of life. She'll join me for tea and I'll be stoked.

I've lost count of the number of parkup spots I've tried since I got started in '97. They've been in towns and city and sea front, in the depths of mountains, by lakes and in forests, on the furthest fringes of Ireland, tucked away in Wales and Anglesey, or with the crowds in Cornwall and Devon, on the laybys or grass verges of byways. Only twice have I been moved on.

We're not afraid of parking up, we're just discreet, one night stands, use you're common sense. I don't know if there is a rule of thumb. What distinguishes a safe from unsafe spot? Instinct I guess. Weekend surfers often ask me, are you going to park here tonight? Then later some get fidgety and disappear to the nearest campsite, telling me the next day. Hellman, that's one weeks food budget. Well, you park pretty well anywhere that has'nt got a sign up, if in doubt get in late and get out early. If you can handle the traffic noise then you can live on the laybys of the A roads, but you've gotta keep moving. Same goes for the contry verges, but here you'll get the local farmers on you in no time - the police won't bother you on the A roads 'cos the lorry drivers now use them permanently 'cos of the tachometers and driving rules. Then, when you get down the beach in autumn, just a few tourists remaining and them often in camper vans and motorhomes, you park where you like - the attendants have gone 'cos the Council can't afford to send people round when it gets quiet.

It's a buzz hangin out by the sea in autumn. Go west I say, Wales is best, Ireland is better, take your time, we'll all have fun. You and me and an old camper van or you and your van and me and my van, we'll meet up some place - I'm going to Northern Ireland beginning of October, maybe see you there, like as not it'll be clean and offshore.

I love it in autumn. I used to get real sad as summer died, but van life changed all that. No longer am I sitting indoors looking out and thinking, it's a long time till next spring. To be part of autumn you must soak up the air, the smells of the country and of the sea shore. If you're part of it you'll know what I mean. If you're not go out and get a van and go out and find it. I love it in the van, the floor's covered in sand, and bits of wood from the woodburner get everwhere. I roll up my bedroll every morning and tuck it out of the way so I can just lounge around without a care. Four summers and the fourth winter coming up, of dust, sand and stuff ingrained into my van, but it does'nt matter, it's real homely, it probably smells, but bits of driftwood, things collected, incense and other things burnt make it real. I guess the inside of an old van is a bit like a womb, smal, warm, shadowy, safe.

It's the therapy that van life provides which drags you back. Once you've tasted it you want more. Because it's cheap, so real, it actually destroys the purpose of the job. To BE is the purpose of life. The treadmill of society is an accelerator pedal without a brake. We get out in our vans and quietly slip away and live like Kings and Queens just for one day. The British Isles is an empty place once you're looking. The Search will take you there, nobody cares once you slip away, once you slip away. Today's media driven world does'nt see, doesn't acknowledge the other side of life. Good!

We'll get up and surf the morning glass, then we'll hang out for a while and eat a bit. Make some fruit jelly for later, lie in the sun, go to the stream, surf again, take the bikes down the beach and explore, go fishing. Tomorrow we'll walk in the hills, hang out, lie in the sun, go to the well in the woods for water, surf again, just take it easy. We'll play music, not loud, just for us. And people will come, because they always do, to talk and enjoy what we're doing, 'cos they can't, they've got to go back. We'll pick the blackberries, pick the mushrooms, we'll have a bag of spuds in the van and some veg, get milk from the farm, eggs from the lady down the track and for 9 pence and a bag of flour from Lidl we'll cook jabbatis. We'll do it, just for one day every day, from now until eternity.

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