But, what about your pension?

What about your pension? Leaving two good jobs, with a mortgage to pay, might seem madness to many people, but, to me, it meant freedom.

Backpacking in Australia

I met my husband in Sydney whilst we were both backpacking in Australia for a year. He had had taken the ‘stack tins of beans in a supermarket then buy a flight to Australia’ route whilst I’d travelled with a friend through Asia for four months. I’d visited some of the most beautiful countries in the world. We were both young, usually inebriated and having a great responsibility-free time. After months of working in one outfit retrieved from the bottom of a boot-marked, egg-rice-stained rucksack and living in a bunk-bedded room with six different nationalities, we returned home to the UK.

Nine to five living

Nine to five living has never been my forte. I’ve spent many hours dreaming of freedom whilst staring at a computer screen in a purpose-built office. The feeling of sadness as, when the sun finally appears after a mild winter of rain, we have to close the blinds because the glare makes it impossible to see the screen. The ridiculous excitement as a little envelope appears on email. It shows that someone cares or in most cases that the toner in the photocopier needs changing. Whilst to some ‘routine’ means safe, stable and familiar, to me, it’s a dirty word like ‘pottering’, ‘company’ car and ‘ISA’. We both wanted out.

We discussed a few ideas during our couple of hours between driving to work, working, cooking, cleaning and sleeping. Travel was the main option. Although this time it would be harder. We were in our early thirties, we had a mortgage, a car and two comfortable secure jobs, which had funded quite a few two-three week holidays in the past few years. This time we couldn’t sponge off Mum and Dad (although we did for a while). We couldn’t just drop everything, take off and start anew when we got back. Or could we?

For a year we saved every penny.

Worried about renting our house to strangers, we came up with the plan to rent it to friends and family. After all, we lived by the sea and a lot of our potential ‘bookings’ lived further afield. We just had to convince them that they desperately needed a holiday in the south west. Probably the most crucial decision was where to travel and how. We would be on a tight budget, so tying in our transport and living arrangements was the ideal answer. We’d travelled through the Canadian Rockies a few years earlier in a brand new 6-berth motorhome and loved it. It was the ideal solution.

Where to go?

Where to go was narrowed down to two choices. Drive across the USA or travel around Britain. As I’ve mentioned before, some might see no contest in this. But, as we deliberated about the destination, we realised that we’d seen lions, elephants and bears in their natural habitats, but never an otter. I’d been to the most southerly island of New Zealand, and walked on the Great Wall of China but I’d never been to John O’Groats. The choice was made. All we had to do was find our transport.

Although we’d talked about it for months, giving up our safe dependable jobs still seemed like a dream; something you talk and think endlessly about whilst clicking the mouse and staring out your office window onto the car park. Would we actually do it? I wasn’t totally sure until a couple of weeks before Christmas, we found ‘Rosie’, a Swift Talbot Capri 540 GXL, advertised on the internet.

Swift Talbot Capri 540 GXL

To the motorhome ignorant, which included me, it’s a fairly big one, can sleep 5 at a push and has the all-important (or I wouldn’t be doing it) bathroom. Cleverly keeping an eye on the advert, the price came down after a week and we contacted the vendors. A kiwi couple on their way back to New Zealand with their two children. Fortunately, as they needed to sell her quickly they’d lowered the price. It was too good a chance to miss. On Christmas Eve we rushed up to London, checked her out and parted with the cash. As the two children cried, we drove their beloved motorhome away, promising to keep her name ‘Rosie’.

We sat down to Christmas dinner, a 3-ton 5-berth motorhome parked outside our house, far fewer savings. We hadn’t advertised the house and none of our friends had any idea what we were planning. The future looked bright, if a little scary.

Best time of year to travel around Britain

We decided the right time to begin our journey would be Spring, late Spring, so that sites would be open and the weather not too cold for two novice motorhome travellers. Within a few weeks we gave notice to leave our jobs. Actions which prompted very different responses. Mostly, friends and colleagues were pleased and excited for us, but a few had their reservations: “Oh!”, “What about your pension?”, “Wouldn’t you rather go down under, see some of the world”, “I could drive around Britain in a week!” “Are you going to Ireland, it’s beautiful there?” For all of these, the negative ones, I had my stock answer. I’d seen other places, now I wanted to see where I came from. More “Ohs” and “well, yes, I suppose there are nice parts, especially…” It worked every time.

At the same time, we approached our friends and family touting for business. What they really needed was a short break in the south west, a lovely ‘home from home’, ten minutes walk to the sea. After a few weeks and much help from two particularly eager friends and two very helpful aunts, we had almost enough money to cover the mortgage payments and bills whilst we were away. We made a rough plan of our route, trying to include as much of the country as possible but it soon became obvious that we’d only be able to have a very brief stay in each place if we were to travel the whole distance.

Five months around Australia and you could probably see nearly every town. Most places are people-less with vast expanses of similar, albeit spectacular, pieces of land in between.

Way up north in Scotland on a latitude with Norway

Britain has no great distances in comparison but around every corner is a new piece of scenery and another piece of hidden history. Every town, village and hamlet has its secrets if you have the time to stay and find them. We weren’t sure how many we’d be able to explore but we would try not to be restricted by an itinerary. Finally, rules for the trip were laid down: no major cities, definitely no motorways and a portable TV only to be switched on to watch the imminent World Cup. Other than that, the country lay before us. Stretched out from our home town on page six, to page 110 of the map, way up north in Scotland on a latitude with Norway. 

 

Getting used to freedom