Zagan Forays and Crackpot Plan Progress

Life’s settled into a gentle, if temporary rhythm. Monday to Friday I am Jason Buckley, the IT Project Manager, shirted if not tied, and booted if not suited. Come Friday evening, I’m outta there like a wayward firework, legging it from the office to the Smart car, flying down the M1 (sometimes exceeding 60mph in my rush), picking up Ju and the prepped and bagged weekend goodies from The Cooler and nipping the last mile up to Zagan, sat patiently in storage.

From there we’ve taken to little forays out into Derbyshire somewhere, finding Britstops, CLs and pubs to stay in. This Friday we sat alone in a farmer’s field, one of the Britstop locations, in serene silence. The view spilled out over a blue moon-lit vista of fields and trees. A herd of butter-coloured cows in the next field paid us scant attention as we chilled for the night, literally, firing the heating up in the morning. Well, it is only August…

Blue Moon over Derbyshire

Ju had called the farmer and confirmed we could stay the night, using her newly invented verb: ‘to Britstop’. Usage example: ‘are you OK for us to Britstop tonight?’ So far everyone’s understood her, and welcomed us in, putting zero pressure on us to buy stuff. The farm has a shop and cafe. Surrounded by cyclists the following morning we tucked into a huge fry up each in the cafe, having listened with smiling eyes to the tough old farmer telling us of harder times, when folks would smoke used and dried tea leaves, as “no baccy could be ‘ad”.

The only problem with Britstops is us. Our range is limited by the fact we can’t be bothered to drive further than 30 or 40 mins, and we’re slowly starting to use up those locations a stone’s throw from us. Ju fired up her phone and searched for motorhome stopovers, finding a pub adjacent to a flowing green-banked river, which had allowed vans to stay in the past. Later comments pointed out groups of vans had started to stay, which had peeved the locals (fair enough), so Ju called to ask if we were OK to sleep there, on the basis we bought a meal. Jackpot, they only took a single van per night now, and had one already in, but our fellow vanners had stayed the previous night and were leaving.

Zagan was still, sort of, on the ramps at this point in the field next to the cafe. Our old van Dave had incredible ground clearance, which might explain how we got across Ukraine scarless. Zagan’s a more refined fellow though. His front end has a kind of grey speed-skirt wrapped around the front wheels, which made it a bit difficult to get him onto the ramps without snapping it all off. Perhaps we’ve gone wuss, but we gave up and kipped on a wonk instead.

Country lanes and hump back bridges are getting my eye in with Zagan’s road placement. Despite plenty of opportunities for wing mirror whacking (touch wood) as we shifted locations, we’re still scrapeless. Phew. Ju’s more relieved than I am, as Zagan is a left-hooker, so she’ll be much closer to the action if any ‘road kissing’ does take place… To my relief, he’s slowly starting to feel ‘normal’ sized as I drive along, although 2 years of driving a Smart car are proving hard to get out of my system.

Sat night’s stop – just cracking!

The next pub turned out to be a joyful parking spot, with our hab door opening up straight onto a view of the river next to us, the cool water rushing along, creating the kind of background noise we so loved when alongside the sea. Zagan’s shower head found its way into a cup of Lidl diet coke to clear some limescale, which Ju finished off with a needle. There’s something about having a shower in a car park, something magical for a fool like me! Inside, with us grinning and refreshed, the pub landlady turned out to be an open soul, telling us of her lost pooches who had passed away at ripe old ages. She held out her wrist to show two small paw tattoos. In all honesty the food was average, but the welcome and the location more than made up for it.

Our pooch on his bench in Zagan – loved as much as the landlady’s beloved dogs.

The following morning we nipped up a promising-looking footpath across a wooden bridge to find it opened up on the Monsal Trail, one of the old steam railway routes transformed into a footpath. Most folks were bright enough to be biking it, but we ambled along for miles through cuttings in millions-years old limestone, 400m tunnels and across a man-made ledge. More like something from the Cinque Terre than a wander in Debryshire, the views out over the countryside were pretty damned beautiful too.

Tunnel on the Monsal Trail

Black Paw Takes an Unwanted Kiss to the Face. By the way, I’ve decided to grow my hair. Long. Could be my last chance before it all falls out. I’m thinking of going for a kind of ‘Bill Bailey’ look…

Back in The Cooler, the other news is we have a tenant for the main part of the house. Ooooohhh! The shop’s still not let, but the numbers stack up. Our madcap plan to ‘retire’ and travel at 43 is coming off. I’ve stuck retire in quotes as we both have stacks of energy still, and we aren’t going to be retiring in the traditional sense of the word. Our form of retirement will be one where we don’t have to work, but if we want to we can. We can choose where, when, how long for, doing what and for whom. The money we earn, if any, will be in addition to what we need and would perhaps pay for blowout stuff like visiting Antartica, some such.

Hey! It’s a hard life, but someone’s got to do it.

Anyway, enough rambling on. Sunday evening’s drawing in, time for a kip and Mr Project Manager to awaken and rush off to the office in the morning. Only for another 8 weeks mind, then it’s fun time baby.

Cheers! Jay