#fromrusttoroadtrip
Snapshots from our van.
One of the tiniest storage areas in our van is the place where we keep our toothbrushes and toiletries. It was made by a happy accident, where two pieces of cladding overlapped, and it’s turned out to be one of the most useful things we have in our tiny home.
Follow the hashtag #Fromrusttoroadtrip to follow our van conversion project and our travels around Europe!
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I remember this moment well. Not one week into our third roadtrip, still giddy with the highs of freedom, we had just entered the French Alps. It was our plan to cross the length of the Alps in their 1,200km entirety, a feat we were not sure had been accomplished yet by road.
Except our van was beginning to make some worryingly loud noises as we decelerated down a hill, and we rolled into the town of Briançon with our first bout of breakdown anxiety.
It was here in the confines of a LIDL carpark that we identified a propshaft issue, but, unable to find a French mechanic who was willing to work on a weekend, we pressed on.
We spent a chilly but scenic night at just shy of 2,000m high on the shores of Lac du Mont-Cenis then pushed on toward Italy in the morning. Shortly after crossing the border however, the noise was now a permanent feature and a growing concern, until finally we pulled over and phoned for a recovery truck outside an Italian cafe. We spent five hours here waiting for rescue, drinking espresso, chatting with the locals in my best Italian, then finally succumbing to boredom and heat fatigue as we baked in the sun at the roadside.
After a good long while we were taken down the mountain on the back of a tow truck and it was just like the good old days, as though we’d never left the continent in our (t)rusty LDV. We were offered a hotel and help with the repair bill by our breakdown company, but I insisted we stay with the van. Much to everyone else’s chagrin we three spent a cold, miserable night confined to our quarters in the garage courtyard, dreaming of the hot shower and comfy bed we could’ve had.
But I knew I was right in my decision, and if three years of travelling thus far had taught me anything it was this: the van was our comfort, our safety, our home. When she stops we stop, and where she goes we go.
~ This image was created as part of our “Transient” travelogue project. ~ Stepping away from the Instagram frivolities and fakery, “Transient” serves as a close and intimate portrayal of our lives in an attempt to remove the romanticism of travel and capture a raw and honest self-documentary inspired by the images and stories of the new age travellers of 1980’s Britain.You can view the full project and others over on our website lbjournals.com.
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Brewing up Turkish coffee in the Welsh mountains on a stormy day- the perfect antidote to a sleepless night.
Perhaps we should’ve expected the inevitably wet British weather on our camping trip to Snowdonia, but not knowing what to expect was all part of the fun. We’d spent a rather long time trying to find a suitable camp spot that day, eventually settling in a small, untouched patch of pine forest that had not yet been logged unlike its surroundings.
We busied ourselves pitching the tent, lighting a fire and preparing some dinner, and it was only once we had just finished setting up camp that the heavens opened. As our campsite quickly flooded with rain and the fire crackled and hissed, struggling to stay alight, Ben and I frantically began lashing a tarp to the surrounding trees, cutting pieces of cord with an old hunting knife and tying them to whatever branches we could find as rain streamed down our faces and up my sleeves.
You’d think this would’ve been the last straw at the end of a challenging day, but somehow as we sat eating fajitas in the car by the light of the fire that glowed beneath our newly constructed shelter, we caught eachother’s eyes and couldn’t stop giggling. Sure we were wet and cold, our tent was damp and our socks were soaked, but we were having fun nonetheless. We were out here alone, not another human in sight, just battling with the elements and keeping each other company.
The fondest memories we make aren’t always of the best times, and even the best-laid plans often go awry, but we embrace every moment of freedom we can find. Where adventure waits, there lies challenge, and we are prepared to follow.
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We’ve only been wild swimming for the past year or so, mainly in Cornish quarries, Alpine lakes and once in the blue Danube, but this was by far the coldest water I’ve swum in.
After a night spent camping in the Welsh forest, sheltering under a tarpaulin from the deluge of rain, we hiked most of the way up Mount Snowdon on a typically blustery Autumn day.
We’d hiked through the Pyrenees, driven the length of the Alps, travelled across the Carpathians and explored the Accursed Mountains, but never did we realise the beauty of the mountains which lay on our very own doorstep.Snowdon was every bit as wild, every bit as barren and every bit as breathtaking as the mountains we’d explored so far, although perhaps its beauty simply struck us so poignantly because it had been so long since we’d seen a landscape this untouched.
Feet hot and aching post-hike, and feeling a little less than fresh three days into our camping trip, we pulled the car over next to Llyn Dinas on a whim. After a brief walk around its shore to a spot that looked suitably clear and shallow enough to climb into, I stripped off and put on my bathing suit, then eased myself into the water. It was instantly, numbingly cold, probably no more than 10°C, taking my breath away and the feeling from my toes, but I pushed myself to lower my shoulders and swim a few armlengths out into the water.
The water was invigorating, crystal clear, Autumn-hued leaves adding little splashes of colour to the glassy surface and that view- ! Luscious forested banks framing rugged peaks toward which the water stretched infinitely- this is what I focused on as I swam a few short lengths trying to warm up, and eventually my body adjusted to the temperature and I was blissfully floating.
Nothing could compare to this feeling; cold wild water, empty open space. Warm chlorinated pools could never recreate the exhilaration and freedom that swimming in wild water provides. The cold shock was said to improve your circulation and do wonders for mental health, and floating here, fully immersed, I could see why that would be true.
Wild swimming had been at the top of my agenda for our trip to Wales, and I sat in the car shivering afterward, wrapped in as many layers as I had packed, feeling truly accomplished in myself for having gone in.
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I once heard that to enjoy the wild, sometimes you must succumb to boredom, and it’s kind of true. In a contemporary society, so full of distractions replacing actions, boredom can seem like a radical thing.
5 minutes spare? Check your phone. Waiting for the bus? Check your phone. Having a lie in? Can’t sleep? Bored? Check your phone.⠀
Never for one moment in this technologically enhanced culture do we need to suffer boredom when there’s a million things to do at the flick of a screen, yet these things serve no purpose other than to pass time. They have no meaning, they create no lasting memories, challenge or stimulate us. Often we don’t notice the voices in our phone screens, billions of them chiming in at once, how loud they call until we shut them off.⠀
Silence.⠀
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Our nights camping in the valleys of North Wales were a deliberate motion to disconnect ourselves for a few days; without even a lick of signal we were forced to make our own fun.⠀
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Camping in the wilds of Snowdonia with nothing but a tent and a car to hold our supplies forced us to live deliberately, in a way that not even our van enables us to. For the bare minimum of comfort there’s the arduous process of setting up a tent, inflating a mattress, collecting firewood, coaxing a fire into life and preparing a meal on its white hot coals. By the time all this is done, and we’ve spent the best part of an afternoon seeking out a camp spot, there’s little else we want to do than fall into bed beneath the stars and soak in the absolute silence around us.
Without the temptations of TV, or the endless scroll of social media at our fingertips our thoughts can breathe, and by physically distancing ourselves from our problems for a while we can gain a deeper perspective. The picturesque valleys of North Wales, crowded with flocks of sheep and little else, offered us the one thing we’ve been lacking these past months: solitude.
Sometimes we just need to disconnect for a while; distance ourselves from the humdrum of life and regain clarity.⠀
A few weeks ago I surprised Ben with a trip to Snowdonia for his birthday. Although we’ve driven extensively across Europe in our van, we’ve never taken the time to explore much on our home island, and Snowdonia was a place we’d always wanted to see.⠀
A six hour drive used to seem like a long way to us, but now as the miles are racking up under our belts the world is starting to seem smaller, and Wales suddenly didn’t seem that far away.⠀
This time however we opted to ditch the van, and take our five day stint away back to basics. We loaded up the car with sleeping bags, tent, walking boots, axe, coal, a tarpaulin- not that at this point we knew just how much we’d need one.⠀
We hit the road and immediately our shoulders felt lighter as the burden of routine was lifted. ⠀
When we were still in uni, I used to drive us all over Cornwall in my little, clapped-out old Polo. We’d set up camp on the cliffs, on the sands of an empty beach, or camp in the car if somebody forgot to pack the tent poles. We’d stay up til sunrise talking around the fire, in awe of the crashing waves below and the distant lights of ships on the horizon hovering above coastal fog. After a couple hours sleep at most we’d pack up our wind-flattened tent as walkers passed by and laughed, and drag ourselves into the nearest public toilets for a wash.⠀
It’s these kind of memories- haphazard, spontaneous and wonderfully simplistic that we look back on fondly, and it’s these days that inspired us to undertake an equally haphazard trip to Wales with nothing but ourselves, an old, crumpled road atlas and a car full of camping gear. We left in search of peace, in search of isolation and beautiful corners of this island, and boy did we find them.⠀
Story continues on Sunday!⠀
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Where we wish we were right now: floating on a still lake, beer in one hand, charcoaled sausage in the other, no care in the world and nothing but summer vibes.⠀
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Where we actually are right now: Sheltering in our van from the relentless Cornish rain, some of which is slowly soaking the rug on our floor, curled up with a cuppa tea and the heating on.⠀
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Happy Sunday everyone ⠀
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Photo by @brisingamen_designs ⠀
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It’s been a while since we last spent any time on social media- life’s just got in the way of many things. We’ve been so busy living, working, building our future that there’s been barely a moment to rest.
Lockdown hasn’t changed much for us, apart from being grounded and unable to travel, but truthfully we’d still be where we are now- saving money, crafting our ideas and dreams into something tangible, laying foundations for the next roadtrip. There will always be a next trip, a crazy idea flitting about the backs of our minds ready to flourish and manifest into reality; it’s not so much ? as ?
The rare moments of the summer when we’re not working on something have been spent here; our local swimming hole. A short walk through the mines and moorlands brings us out into a little slice of evening paradise. An icy but just bearable dip in the water with fish darting around our ankles followed by a jumper-wrapped warm-up by the fire, fingers greasy with oil, eating homegrown vegetables charred on the BBQ.
I guess what I’m conveying here is our lust for a simple life; simple food, simple pleasures, time away from routine, disconnected, and time spent living wildly. It’s truly tonic for the soul.
We’d love to have a little catch up with you all, so maybe drop us a comment and let us know what’s been keeping you busy this summer? ⠀
Another day of life in the wild.⠀
One of our last few days in Bosnia, spent amongst snow and pine, sprucing up before our big journey home-bound. We’d be returning worn out and penniless, with a broken van and a clutch of precious new memories, yet we did not regret a single moment of the last six months.
It’s a taboo subject to talk about money, but we left for this trip with just a few grand between us. For six months of living and travelling over 15,000 miles- that’s not a lot.
And so to anyone who says that we are privileged: you’re wrong. Our lifestyle is not a privilege, it is the product of hard work, ruthless saving and months of rigorous planning. All in the name of following our dreams, all in hope that someday we might be able to make the money to sustain doing what we love. All for that little taste of freedom.
And it was worth every freezing night, every stale loaf of bread, every skipped meal, every dinner scraped together out of leftovers, every push to get to the next fuel station and every questionable road. We have not lived well but boy have we lived.
We’ve driven spectacular roads, spent evenings in the company of welcoming locals, sampled cuisines and cultures from all walks of life, been to unbelievably remote locations and captured it all through the glass of a lens.
See we’re not just doing this for a jolly, to escape the 9-5; we’re doing this because we have a passion and the tenacity to chase our dreams. We sacrificed comfort and security for the promise of something so much bigger.⠀
You don’t have to be rich to travel; we’re proof of that. All you need is a dream, and the desire to chase that dream.⠀
Our van wheels crunched over unpaved road after unpaved road, kicking up mud and gravel as we bumbled along a series of winding dirt tracks which wove their way through endless pine forest.
This was the face of Bosnia & Herzegovina’s interior, a world away from the bustle and bullet-strewn concrete structures of its capital Sarajevo. Here, pretty little stone houses were strewn across scenic plateaus which seemed to appear mysteriously out of the dense thicket of trees that surrounded them and crept up to their doorsteps. Wild animals were known to roam these forests, and we wondered how humans could live so close to them without conflict.
We were still carving our route home out, ever Northbound, savouring these last few days in the Balkans before we would hotfoot across Europe back to England. We slept soundly that night, cradled by the forest, and coaxed our van into life with jackets bundled against the icy morning air. This was our pattern of travel these days; squeezing the most of every moment, battling with our van to get it home, the road our only constant as we went.⠀
As the forest dwindled and eventually gave way to civilisation we followed a winding little road partially covered by snow up to a ledge, where we spent the night sleeping underneath the remnants of Tito’s fist. Now a crumbling concrete structure, this bizarre object known as a spomenik had once been a monument to the Partisan soldiers who fought in the Battle of the Wounded in the valley below, but was nicknamed for its uncanny resemblance to Yugoslavia’s former leader ad the iron fist with which he ruled. However, shortly after the Bosnian War, a group of vandals planted dynamite inside and blew it to pieces, although its skeleton still dominates the skyline for miles around.
We were beginning to understand more of Bosnia’s chequered past, evident in every bullet-strewn building and every crumbling ruin we passed. Twenty years was not enough time to heal, but even after the visible reminders had long since been repaired, the memories would not fade for generations yet to come.⠀
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Driving through the snow-covered mountains which encircled Sarajevo, it was hard to imagine this beautiful area as a war zone, even less so one that had existed in our lifetimes. Yet the scars leftover from the war were omnipresent; they were in every bullet hole-strewn building, in every road surface struck by a mortar, in every man who hobbled past us on wooden crutches. We had arrived in Bosnia & Herzegovina with the intention of seeing beyond its past, but found it quite impossible to ignore.
Perhaps most poignant of all the lingering remnants of war were Sarajevo’s abandoned Olympic venues; the bobsleigh track once filled with spectators, now a crumbling relic; the angular lump of concrete that was Hotel Igman, whose rooms had not been filled since the siege began. Most chilling of all perhaps, were the former Olympic ski jumps, located on the buffer zone across Igman ridge, laced with mines and used as a site for executions.
As our boots crunched through deep snow only the eerie silence in the air betrayed the area’s dark history. We’d spent the night at Hotel Igman, although not as its designers had intended; we’d camped up in what would’ve been its car park, or so we had presumed as it was buried under a foot or so of snow. Having woken up to find the bobsleigh track and surrounding pine trees painted white the previous morning, it gave us an enormous sense of comfort that the mountains on the opposite side of Sarajevo were also covered. This would be the last snow we’d see for many months, dusting the communist concrete structures and turning them into things of beauty, the snow and infinite forest of pine trees muffling all sounds as we slept beneath a blanket of white.
But now the snow was melting, icicles dripping all around us and soaking into our boots as we explored the remnants of Sarajevo’s ski jumps. It seemed metaphorical almost of our time in the Balkans; simplistically beautiful, all too brief and now slowly coming to an end.
We had just a few more days in Bosnia before our compass would point us North, and we would make our reluctant return into Western civilisation.
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