Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin
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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
Am I off to an unlucky start choosing April Fool’s day as the beginning of my journey? Fools rush in, right? With my forehead pressed against the living room window I watch as rain lashes down on poor Poppy. Her windscreen is frosty and opaque, the wipers half-mast like eyes closed for sleep. So much for a sunny-skied spring – although the weather does match my mood.
Drenched Poppy, copping bucket loads of rain, seems solemn somehow. I know it’s the first sign of madness having affection for an inanimate thing, but I feel an affinity with her, perhaps because she is finally going to ferry me away from here, hopefully onto better, brighter things.
In the time since