The first skill someone MUST have in order to live a travelling life is the ability to drive the vehicle you’ve chosen. Guess what I can’t do? Go on, guess. My licence allows me up to 3.5 tons and Georgie is nearly 7.5 tons: perfect for Steve and his ‘Grandad’ licence; not so good for me. Especially as I was stuck in southern Portugal, and I had to get back to the UK to start sorting out all the paperwork that ensues when somebody dies. What I needed were some knights in shining armour. Or, failing that, Romanian armour, as it turns out.

To give you context, my husband was, undoubtedly, the most amazing person on Earth. But logic was something he’d once encountered and then clearly run away from, probably at speed. Our initial discussions about choosing our home-on-wheels were ridiculous.

Steve – ‘Look at this one, isn’t it great?’

Me – ‘Yes, but I can’t drive that.’

Steve – ‘But you won’t have to; I’ll do all the driving.’

Me – ‘But what if you get ill? How would I get you to a hospital if I can’t drive it?’

Steve – ‘That’ll never happen, don’t worry. Ooh, look at this one, isn’t it great?’

Eventually we compromise: we’ll take a Smart car with us so that I can always drive him to hospital if necessary, and, once Steve turns seventy, we’ll downsize from Georgie to something that is within the remit of my licence. Sadly, we are more than a year away from that goal when his heart gives out, leaving me with a problem thirty-four feet long.

Portugal

So here I am, in Moncarapacho, making a list of everyone we’ve met on our travels who can drive an RV, or who might know someone with an HGV licence. There are RV owners clubs and groups that might yield a contact, and mechanics who’ve worked on Georgie that might know someone too. And although every single one of these are long shots, I am not daunted. The last three years has produced so many problems we were clueless to solve when they occurred – far too many to list here. But then one of us would cuddle the other one and say, ‘I don’t know how we’ll fix this, but we will’, and, eventually, we always did. So this just feels like more of the same.

I’m about to start making phone calls when I get a message from one of our great friends; an angel by the name of Fabienne. She and Steve used to teach Self-Esteem courses together, and we’ve known each other since before we got married. She tells me that her husband is involved in a building project in the south of France, and currently employs HGV drivers to take supplies back and forth. She wants to send me two of them to drive Georgie back to the UK for me, and – utterly generous, big-hearted and beautiful lady that she is – she wants to pay the expenses of doing that.

I am completely floored and utterly grateful. I know she will expect nothing in return, and that this is her way of doing something for Steve. She tells me she is going to send down two Romanian chaps, one of whom speaks fairly good English. In order to get me home as quickly as possible, one will drive the van and the other will drive my car. So I have a few days to sort out a route, find places for them to stay, and then locate somewhere to take Georgie once we get home.

By now I have spoken to the British Consulate in Lisbon, and started the ‘Tell us once’ process for registering Steve’s death. In the village I buy six official copies of his death certificate and collect his ashes from Pedro. Afterwards he sends me a last text telling me he will never forget me, please to not forget him, and to demand that I come and say ‘Hi’ if I am ever in Moncarapacho again.

Ian and Sue, my friends at the campsite, can’t delay their return to the UK any longer, and we all cry when we say goodbye. Brenda shows me the ‘paint your own dinosaur’ that she won in our Xmas games night. She has coloured him in and written the name, Steve, on his side. She tells me that he will sit on the dashboard of their campervan from now on, so he can travel with them and have a good view of wherever they’re going. I know that whatever happens in my life from here on, my world is a far better place for having these beautiful people in it.

My knights

My Romanian drivers, Traian and John, call me at eight in the morning to tell me they are at Nice airport. I consider this rather enthusiastic as their plane doesn’t leave until eleven. I wonder if I’ve just lost the knack of air travel after all this leisurely time in the van? They say they’ll get a taxi to their B&B, and phone me once they’re settled in. When they do, Andy (another resident of our campsite) takes me to pick them up in his people-carrier, because I only have a two-seater car. As we walk through the grounds to their room we see a pen full of meerkats that are staring at me over a low wall.

Back at Frank’s, I show them around Georgie. John has a go at the controls, and nods, it is easy, it is fine. I talk Traian through the itinerary for the next few days, including the fact that we’ll have to pause on the way out of the campsite for me to empty the waste tanks. And I’m gonna need to buy some gas as I’m running low. Andy drops them back at their digs again, but doesn’t return for several hours, as they’ve all got on like a house on fire and gone for drinks together. Then he goes and picks them a big bag of oranges from Frank’s orchard to take home with them.

In the morning, Andy collects the guys, and the whole campsite comes out to say goodbye to me. They have been wonderful to Steve and I, and so supportive to me since his death, and I find it very hard: I have no idea if I’ll ever see any of them again. But this also means that everyone is watching me as I unfurl the blue waste pipe to empty the tanks – and it promptly shears off in my hands. This is added to the ‘I’ll deal with this later’ list that is already several pages long.

Of course, full tanks means that an indescribable smell fills the van as soon as we start driving and sloshing it all about. For nearly three years Steve has always just opened the windows, and ignored it, and I’ve been driving behind in Nibbles, the Smart car, so I never knew how truly disgusting it was. I am appalled for poor John who is driving Georgie, and almost anaesthetise him with my liberal use of air freshener spray.

Spain

As soon as we cross the border and stop for lunch I consider the problem of the nauseating smell. I figure there’s only certain places that it can be emanating from so I put plugs in all the plug-holes, and chuck a thick blanket over the loo. And suddenly, no smell. Yay. Can’t believe Steve drove it like that for all these years when it was such a simple fix.

I dub my drivers Silent knight and Knight lite. John (Silent knight) never talks except to swear in Romanian down the walkie-talkie to Traian, who is generally winding him up. Traian (Knight lite) is more light-hearted and likes to joke around, although I expect a lot of it is at John’s expense. Most of the time I have to walkie-talkie Traian, driving Nibbles, to get him to translate to John, who is sitting right next to me. Consequently, most of the time I don’t bother.

The nice bubble I was in at the campsite has now well and truly burst. The ripple-effect of Steve’s love that I experienced has evaporated, and I am being driven head-on into my grief. Everything about this journey screams his absence. This is the first time I have sat in the passenger seat of Georgie – something we’d always looked forward to – and Steve is not by my side. Even the road itself holds memories, as we’ve driven this way several times before. I wonder if I’ll ever drive here again, and the slow realisation of the changes that are already crashing into my life leave me chilled and shaking. I turn my face to the window and weep, soundlessly, so as not to upset John.

Georgie is driving along fine, but she is sprouting new problems on a daily basis. There are things that won’t shut, or worse, won’t open; there’s no hot water; the levellers are playing up; I have broken waste pipes and lightbulbs, and the fridge is being an arse. I consider the idea that this is Georgie’s way of mourning for Steve – as if all the love he poured into his precious van was holding her together, and now she is literally falling apart along with me. It seems entirely logical.

When we stop for the night I crawl under the van to retie the ‘lazy’ leveller that has decided to stop retracting. Then I sort out the fusebox door which keeps popping open and fix the petrol cap, nearly breaking the key in the process. It has been a long and horrible day, with nothing to distract me from all my thoughts of loss, and now I have gravel in my hair and no way to wash it. I don’t have enough gas, I still have brimming waste tanks, what little water I have is cold and I’m parked, alone, on a lay-by near a petrol station. I fall into bed and cry myself to sleep, tightly hugging Steve’s favourite hoodie, which I’ve been wearing since he died. It still has the cut up one sleeve where the paramedics tried to remove it.

The next day we set off early. We have driven far enough north now to have left the warm weather behind, and it is grey, and cold, and miserable. When we stop for lunch I spot a campervan service area, and set about emptying the tanks whilst the knights go for lunch. I’m horrified to discover that this is not all it’s cracked up to be, and the waste drain connects to a pipe leading – not into the sewer system, as it’s supposed to – but out onto a field next door. By the time I realise what’s happening, it’s too late and the waste has been discharged.

While they’re at lunch the guys meet a Russian truck driver who wants to know what I’m going to do with Georgie. They try to sell it to him for me, but he’s not interested in the price I quote. Afterwards, Traian shakes his head at his own stupidity. ‘I forgot to ask what I could get for John,’ he says.

France

Day three is long and exhausting. After stopping for lunch, the knights come to me to talk about changing the original schedule. We are aiming for Chatellerault tonight, and then heading up towards Calais the following day. The plan is to spend tomorrow night at the Baie de Somme and then get the Eurotunnel the following morning. They think that if we set off really early tomorrow, we can make it to the tunnel in one day, and get me to Sevenoaks by early evening. Fabienne says great, she’ll change our reservations for the tunnel, and I warn the campsite that I’m coming a day early.

Changing my plans is not an issue for me, as I’ve found that this way of life pretty much demands flexibility. In the UK, if something is not as advertised, we make a bit of a stink because that is not how things are done. But in the rest of Europe – especially in the small, sleepy villages that tend to house campsites or Aire de Services – almost nothing is as advertised. You just have to rock up, take it as it comes, and make decisions on the fly. I’ve been doing this for nearly three years now – it is what I am used to. And right now, I am clinging on to anything that makes it feel as if I’m still living that life.

When we finally arrive at Chatellerault, Traian spots a big truckstop right next to the tolling booth off the motorway, and suggests they park me there (instead of on the kerb outside the motel I’ve found for them). It isn’t great, but it isn’t terrible either, so I consider it. While I’m doing so, they decide to go back through the toll gate, in order to turn around and drive back in the right way for the truckstop. In the course of these manoeuvres we lose sight of Traian in Nibbles, and he goes completely out of walkie-talkie range. John then pulls off the road into a field to turn around. By the time we’ve located Traian (who is waiting for us further up the road, getting very cross when we don’t show) both of them are fractious, to say the least. Silent knight is now very vocal, and even I can understand what he’s saying, which is a repeated NO to everything that Traian utters.

I ask Traian to translate, ‘Can he just wait here while you and I take the car and check out the original overnight stop, and then we’ll come back as soon as I’ve seen it and decided where I want to be for the night?’ I explain to him that this is what Steve and I had to do all the time, as we almost never found the best place for the night until we’d parked Georgie and gone off in the car to check out our options. We’ll be gone for about ten minutes. John, who has clearly had enough, just says NO again and drives off. Traian and I follow in Nibbles, and I end up in the truckstop, whether I like it or not.

I’m not too worried. The road is a bit too close, it’s noisy, and not a very secure place for a woman on her own. But I’ve stayed in worse, and at least all the driving around in circles and losing each other felt a lot like the life I’m leaving behind. I’m grateful for that moment of familiarity. I figure that I’ll give them time to find the motel and see what it’s like, and to get a cup of coffee inside themselves and calm down. Then I’ll ring them and ask them to come and move me, if I decide it’s not the best place for me to stay.

Just then Fabienne phones to check on our progress, and to fill me in on the new arrangements for tomorrow. I tell her what’s happened, and she goes ballistic. I have been blithely describing the farcical nature of the last hour, not realising how truly dire it sounds. She calls Traian and orders them to come and move me. I think her hubby may have torn Knight lite a new one, as he looks very sheepish when they arrive. ‘I am in big trouble with the boss,’ he says, ‘I so sorry.’ The lay-by outside the motel turns out to be perfect, and I crash into bed and try not to think about what is waiting for me once I cross the channel.

My last journey in Georgie

I get up at six, we leave at seven, we allow the minimum times for breaks and make it to Calais by 3.30. Before we board, I phone Dave and Karen at the campsite near Sevenoaks, to let them know my ETA. It’s the place that Steve and I always stayed both before, and after, the Eurotunnel because it’s so convenient and has plots big enough for Georgie. We also have friends there, Jo and Andy, and their beautiful little girl, Calissie, and I’m looking forward to seeing them again.

At Sevenoaks, Andy turns up just as John is parking Georgie, and very kindly drives both of them to the nearest station, so they don’t have to wait for a taxi. Which is great because I’ve tried to get taxis here before, and they can be a bit thin on the ground in this particular part of the countryside. Jo gives me lots of hugs and some wine. Love her to bits.

Back in Georgie, cold, tired and utterly emotional, I go to bed early and consider my situation. Quite apart from all the logistics involved in registering and dealing with my husband’s death, there is the problem of where (and how) to live. When we first started travelling our address was with Steve’s sister, in her big house in Southend. Since then, the sweet lady has also lost her husband, has sold her house, and moved into a small flat overlooking the sea. So there’s no room for me there.

I have no income, as I’m too disabled to work, was denied PIP, and we’ve been living off Steve’s pensions. It costs way too much to stay in a campsite all year around, anyway, plus most of them have a limit of a few weeks or months before you have to move on. And I can’t drive her.

Also, I can’t live permanently in Georgie because she is an RV, not a campervan. Now this might seem like semantics to you, but there are a couple of major differences. One is that she doesn’t have a cassette that you can wheel off to empty the waste from: she has to be driven to the dumping point and then the appropriate length hoses got out. The second is that all the hot water, heating, fridge and cooker run off gas. Again, not from a canister, but from a large tank that needs filling up at a petrol station. AND I CAN’T DRIVE HER.

So she’ll have to be sold, and I will have lost my husband, my home and my lifestyle, all in one fell swoop. But then what? What do I do? I’m 59: it’ll be years before I draw a pension of my own. I may not be able to feel Steve’s love all around like I did in those first couple of weeks, but I feel his presence close, all the same. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to do any of this without you. But I will, I promise. I’ll make you proud of me.’

I snuggle into the hoodie, because I’m in England now, and it is cold, and I’m going to need to use the gas heating sparingly, as I don’t know how long it has to last me. And then I let go.

I howl out all the feelings that I’ve been keeping at bay, and cry, and cry, and cry, hoping that I’ll fall asleep before I break into a million pieces.

Hoping that, when I finally sleep, it might be for more than the couple of hours that are all I’ve been managing so far.

And hoping that, just this once, Steve will be in my dreams so I can hold him tight and feel his warmth, one last time.

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