Читать книгу Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop - Rebecca Raisin - Страница 12

A couple of weeks later, after a dizzyingly long shift at Époque I realise leaving really is the best course of action, no matter how much it scares me. Work has been a nightmare with the rumours, gossip and constant whispering behind hands and I want out.

But first I need to formulate a plan. I have Poppy and now I just need figure out what to do with her. Back in the flat, after a healthy and nutritious meal of a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, I fire up the laptop and do a bit of investigating.

OK, I go straight to Khloe Parker’s Facebook page, and see she’s updated the masses already: Khloe Parker is in a relationship. She’s tagged Callum in the post and collectively, they’ve had seventy-two comments. I can’t help myself and I click them open, hoping they’re not all congratulations.

Does anyone remember he is in fact married? Even though it’s like a stab to the heart, I read each comment, from the inane ‘wow’ to the more heartbreaking, ‘Congrats guys, glad it’s finally out in the open!’

In the gloomy evening, in the quiet of night, I realise I was the last to know, and the thought pains me so much I can barely swallow my tears. Our mutual acquaintances had known and no one bothered to tell me. Instead they’ve sent the happy couple their best wishes … What kind of life have I been living here?

I click over to Callum’s page, and find photos of the pair, selfies taken up close, their bright eyes and wide smiles taking up the frame. I quickly close Facebook down, and resolve never to check their pages again. Not my best idea, was it? It makes me feel lower than low, as if I don’t matter to anyone.

Is it just because I’m leaving and will have no relevance anymore, because I won’t be Rosie Lewis, Michelin-starred sous-chef …? Or more truthfully is it because I was always on the periphery anyway, never quite fitting in and not knowing how to do anything well, except cook. With my legs well and truly kicked from under me, I forge ahead, trying to push it from my mind.

Mindlessly I scroll the internet, looking for something to distract me. Funny cat videos work until I picture my future with a furry companion and a very healthy herb garden, and quickly move on. Hours later I stumble on a website that catches my eye.

Van Lifers: Living the dream on the open road

As I click through the site, marvelling at the exotic pictures of these strangers’ travels, I find a forum, and request to join. I plan to lurk and read their live conversations, but as soon as I’m approved, a message pops up from another member, so I don’t have the chance.

Hello there Rosie! I’m Charlotte, one of the moderators. If you have any questions, do let me know.

Golly, I thought I’d sneak in and read their posts before actually having to chat to anyone!

Thanks, Charlotte. I’m just going to have a peruse.

She sends me a thumbs-up emoji and I shut the chat window down and spend the next little while trying to make sense of all the different threads, and the plethora of advice from nomads.

Dare I try to live such an unstructured life?

Just the thought of it almost makes me break out in hives. Every day would be different, and I’d have to learn to let go of my obsession with planning every minute, and factoring in variables. Could I do such an audacious thing?

I shut the computer with a bang. Doubtful. But their profile pictures stick in my mind, some with islands and cerulean water in the background, others with rugged mountains, forests, or verdant fields, but they all shared one trait: huge smiles that threatened to swallow them whole. Not the fake selfie smile, the forced rigor mortis of social media pictures, but real joy emanating from these strangers as if they’ve found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

That’s what I want. To feel joyful. But are some people predisposed to joy and others to worry? It would be an experiment then, right? To shed my old self, and see who hides beneath. Despite my self-enforced alcohol ban, I pour a glass of white wine, and think about where I’d go, and what I’d sell to be able to afford the lifestyle, and mostly how I’d manage to reinvent myself if only I took the first leap.

Logging back on, I click the chat button and find Charlotte’s name and type:

Charlotte, do pop-up food vans make enough money to fund travel, or do most people have a safety net of savings?

I send it before I can overthink it, cringing at how desperate I must sound. How do I, planner extraordinaire, not have enough savings? After buying Poppy I wiped out most of what I had; coupled with the cost of living in London, there’s not much left to save even if I wanted to.

Ellipses appear as she writes a reply, and finally:

Everyone is different and it depends on what sort of lifestyle you want to maintain, but generally speaking, pop-up food vans do exceptionally well – everyone needs to eat, right? Not only do they sell to the public at various festivals, and fairs, they also sell to the other nomads, so if that’s your speciality, what are you waiting for!

Hmm, she has a point, everyone does need to eat, and who doesn’t like a freshly brewed pot of exotic tea alongside scones with jam and cream. I could keep my menu simple to start with, and see how things go. Poppy can’t sit on the side of the road forever.

Thanks, Charlotte. What am I waiting for indeed! I’ll mull it over

* * *

A few days later, a rough idea takes shape, and even though it’s daunting, it somehow feels right. But I need more information so I head back to the forum to find Charlotte. Her name isn’t on the chat window but before I can ask anyone another person pops up.

Hey Rosie! I’m Oliver. Welcome to VL. What’s your location?

Blimey, why does he need to know? I can’t just give out my location willy-nilly, can I? There’s a lot to be said for remaining anonymous. Why did I use my real name? An amateur move!

Is this part of my problem though, being so reserved with people? Always holding back, keeping everything bottled up. Slowly but surely becoming an outcast in my own life? Still, he could be anyone! I can’t just trust strangers, especially names on a screen. I compromise, and reply, albeit guardedly. Really he can’t be any worse than my real-life acquaintances, who’ve all kept quiet despite my heartbreak.

Hi, Oliver. I haven’t started my journey yet. Just getting the lay of the land, so to speak. I’m looking for Charlotte, if she’s around?

I scroll to the top of the current thread and read. It’s an online forum for anyone who needs advice or help when it comes to travelling in a caravan or campervan. Born2Travel asks about the best travel insurance, while WanderlustWendall shares an anecdote about an altercation she had with a national park inspector near the Welsh border. They seem so vibrant, so happy; even when WanderlustWendall shares that she copped a fifty-pound fine, she says she learned her lesson and is generous enough to share the tip so others don’t make the same mistake. TravelBug1978 discusses the money saving merits of a 5:2 fasting diet, while NomadbyNight scoffs at the idea.

Charlotte won’t be back for a few weeks, she’s guiding a cycle tour in the Peak District and will be out of range.

Are they all so adventurous? I couldn’t imagine being on a bike for a day, let alone for weeks at a time. Wouldn’t that provoke some sort of injury, all that sitting on a teeny tiny seat?

Thanks, anyway.

I blow out a breath, having psyched myself up to speak openly to Charlotte I feel somewhat deflated.

No worries, so when do you plan to leave?

I want to chat away, and share all my hopes and dreams, but I’m not that person. And for some reason, I felt more comfortable talking to Charlotte, perhaps it’s a female thing. It gave me hope that if there were a bunch of other women travelling the globe alone, then I could do it too.

Soon.

What else can I say? Even if I don’t meander from place to place, I’ll be driving Poppy somewhere, even if it’s only a caravan park where I spend the remainder of my life hiding … No, no I will make the effort, I will adapt, dammit. So Charlotte is currently burning her thigh muscles cycling up and down hills, that doesn’t mean I can’t ask Oliver the same questions.

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.

If you have any other questions, shoot them over. But in the meantime, check out the attachment.

Oliver

I click on the attachment and find more information about Wales, and various travel routes depending on what you sell or what kind of journey you’re undertaking. There’s ones for those with a literary bent, itineraries for sporty types who love climbing mountains (nope) and one that grabs my attention: the foodie/festival route. I lose the next few hours imagining a brave new life, and wondering if I have the courage to live it.

When I stumble on a picture of a suspension bridge high above a tea-coloured Avon Gorge, I make a mental note to avoid it all costs … These nomads sure like to live on the edge. I’m risk averse, and picture myself instead picking wild flowers, and baking up a storm on flat, solid ground.

I take my tea and walk to the window. Rain lashes down and grey skies hover over me like a heavy sigh. I take it as a sign. There’s nothing for me here now, and the only bright spot in my life is Poppy, with her interminable pinkness. The thought makes me smile. It’s time to pack up my things, sell what I can, and donate the rest. I can’t take much with me, and that’s a freedom in itself. Luckily, I live a very uncluttered life, so it doesn’t take long to sort my belongings into piles of keep, sell, donate, or leave for Callum as per our agreement.

I’ll have to wash Poppy thoroughly once more, and make sure she’s all kitted out.

Hi Oliver,

Thank you for your advice. Bristol looks just the ticket. I checked out that link you sent, and I do really like the idea of following that set route like so many others do. At least I’ll know tentatively where I’m going and that’s enough for me.

Thanks so much,

Rosie