Day 8 (belated) - Shattered dreams, shattered van, shattered wallets...Part 1

Friday morning, as intended, we lugged all our gear up and down about 500 stairs at two train stations to eventually reach Cattlegate Farm near Enfield, outer north London, to pick up a modest little campervan that we had already christened 'Vanessa', while eagerly anticipating  a leisurely two weeks motoring on back roads visiting quaint ancestral villages and archeological sites.

Instead, we were introduced to a monster truck we subsequently named Satan. Satan had everything one could wish for in a home away from home: flushing dunny, shower, three gas rings, TV, fridge, sleeping accommodation for 4.   It was a bloody great behemoth of a thing and, as we found to our cost, totally inappropriate for cruising leisurely through medieval villages and towns, like for example, Winchester, whose widest street is about 4.5 metres.  It seems hilarious with hindsight, but yesterday afternoon we were actually looking for somewhere to park the damn thing inside that very pretty medieval and Georgian town.  There were heaps of parking areas in Winchester but all were designed for compact Ford Fiestas, not B-double trucks.  Eventually (and with some anxiety as we manoeuvred the beast along narrow cobbled streets) we careened into the Winchester Hospital grounds, having spotted a large "P" sign.  Big mistake.  Somehow, and neither of us is quite sure how it happened, we ended up on the 6th level of a multi-story car park and, while desperately trying to escape, collected a concrete wall.  Well, at least we didn't demolish a bit of ancient architecture, so that was something.  With wheel arch dangling in the breeze, we beat a hasty retreat towards the delightfully named Folly Farm caravan park in the verdant Hampshire countryside. With no one home at Folly Farm, we headed to the nearby village of Stockbridge for dinner supplies, anxious to try out Satan's 3-burner gas hob.  And yet again, we couldn't park anywhere because Satan was too damn big.

Insurance report says: "Wheel arch missing; side skirt damaged; hole
in roof; extensive body damage".

The back roads around Winchester are single lane, with hedgerows preventing parking on the outskirts of towns, and village streets are one-way horse and carriage width.   Eventually we parked illegally in what I suspect was someone's yard, and rushed off to buy some groceries.  Returning to Folly Farm, we were greeted by a well-spoken British country woman in tweed coat and wellies, who directed us into the nearby paddock,  where we immediately became hopelessly and utterly bogged. Tweed'n'Wellies then rushed out from her warm and cosy hearth to reprimand us for churning up her paddock.  We resisted the urge to suggest that it was ridiculous to direct us in there in the first place.  Despite our best efforts with straw and sugarbags, we were stuck solid and as darkness approached there was nothing else for it but to wait until morning and call the Automobile Association.  At least we had a long enough power cord to provide us with electricity, stuck as we were in the dead centre of the paddock.  Dinner time!  But did the gas hob work?  No, it did not.  So no dinner then.  Then I put Geoff's bags in the bathroom to get them out of the way, and the door somehow locked itself.  When it was still locked after about 10 minutes, we were convinced we would need to break the lock, incurring even more damage and expense.  But thankfully, a small mercy was finally ours and we got it open again.  We then retired to our bed, exhausted and hungry and the soothing tones of various types of owls sent us to our slumber at about oh, 4 am.  What a  day!  But wait, there's more drama to come on Day 9!