#hippy life
Take Magic Mushrooms and explore the forrest..
Tripping, enjoying nature from another perspective..
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This is our home. She’s a 2002 LDV Convoy, once a minibus, now a cosy cabin on wheels. She’s taken us to places that no minibus was ever designed to go. She’s travelled tens of thousands of miles with us over the past four years. She’s survived roads many 4x4s would cringe at.
Sure she wobbles and squeaks and moans and the brakes constantly fail and the rust is eating her inside and out, but she’s done us proud this humble van.
Her roaring engine turns heads wherever we go as people stop to stare and read out the letters L… D… V?
It never ceases to amaze me that the simple combustion of fuel that drives our engine can propel our little home all over the world. Our van is both the heart of our adventure and the very thing which enables it.
She’s taught us everything we know about mechanics, roadside repairs, replacing parts, and everything we know about building a home too. The constant problems that come with an old van are both a source of frustration and a motivation to learn, but they sure make for some interesting travel tales.
After all, it wouldn’t be an adventure without a few bumps in the road.
Coffee. I could talk for hours about it. Turkish coffee, Bosnian coffee, espresso, mocha, bónbón, iced, hot, sweet, black…
Drunk slowly in the morning, soaking in the view. Knocked back in the passenger seat pulling my shoes on and hurrying to start the day’s adventure. Drunk in a little nowhere cafe over light conversation amidst a silver cigarette smoke haze.
Coffee is integral to the start of any day in the Balkans, be it paired with lokum, or baklava, or a shot of rakia and a cigarette- the Balkan breakfast way.
But possibly the best way to take our coffee is brewed up on a little camp stove inside a chipped old enamel pot, prepared by a warm-hearted local by the fire in their home.
The hospitality in the Balkans is unparalleled, unfaltering, woven into their every way of life. It’s impossible not to feel touched and almost taken aback as we, coming from a country with such closed doors and minds, are not prepared for this level of kindness.
And it’s this warm welcome that will keep us coming back to the Balkans for many many years to come.
Driving down these lonesome dirt track roads, icy waters below us, empty mountains all around.
Miles and miles and nothing but silence, nameless peaks stretching toward the sky dusted with patches of white. Those sunset clouds splashed unusual shades of deep purple and dusty rose pink casting a colour haze across the landscape that’s hard to describe, the fleeting kind that comes only after rain and lasts just a few minutes before it’s gone again.
Our tyres ploughed through deep, sticky mud to reach the small ridge that would become home for the night. We wrapped our faces in scarves against the cold and scrambled down the bank to skim stones across the lake’s frozen surface; they bounced and echoed with a bullet ricochet sound that reverberated around the valley and clattered through our ears.
These were the only noises we would hear all night; no birds, no cars, no wind or rain, just us above this frozen lake as the colours slowly melted and the stars came into view.
So much of Albania was just wild land, beautiful places that would not appear on any hiking trail or in any guide book, free to explore, yours to enjoy. With no fences or barriers to hold us back we could pitch up and call anyplace home for the night, and that was just the kind of freedom we craved.
Oh how good it was to be back in this land again.
What I love are slow mornings, waking up to the sunlight stroking my face, climbing out of bed to make coffee and cracking open the door to appreciate the morning view. A little walk or a dip to refresh my body and mind, and a moment of contemplation before we consult our maps to plan the day’s route ahead.
What I don’t love is being woken up at 7am by someone insistently honking their horn outside our van, stumbling groggily out of bed to be greeted by a police badge.
They ask us where we’re from, what we’re doing here, and we reply that we’re sleeping and is there a problem?
“No problem,” he says, and gets back in his police car and drives away. Well then why the hell wake us up?!
These are the stories of two very different mornings parked in the same camp spot. Setting up camp is a little like flipping a coin; you never know what the result will be, but you can be sure it will make a good story.
Our first few days in Albania were spent at this spot, enjoying a rare moment of winter sunshine, waking up to the soft tinkling of goat bells and the distant braying of donkeys.
The glassy lake waters reflected the steely grey mountains and smoke stacks which rose upwards in the still air.
Sure the water was cold, and the nights were even colder, but that didn’t stop us from taking a refreshing dip in the mornings with little fish swimming around our ankles. The warm air tingled against our cold skin as we emerged, revitalised, and headed back to the van to brew up coffee.
It’s simple mornings like these that give us time to recharge our batteries, to bask in our surroundings and plan the next leg of our adventure. This is the simple life we so crave, detached from civilisation, and our van which affords us this moments as we drive into the depths of beyond in search of a wild place to just be for a little while.
Living in 6m² of space really teaches you to prioritise what you need in life.
Before we started living in our van Ben lived in a small flat and I lived in a house full of clutter. During uni he moved into an even smaller caravan, and I eventually joined him. Downsizing came naturally to Ben, but it took me years to rid myself of all the junk I’d collected.
By the time we moved into our van we had just a handful of possessions each, only the bare basics; clothes, plates, blankets, our all-important camera gear. Yet still we continued to minimise, leaving behind anything we hadn’t used in the past few months, choosing between spare parts and extra shoes and selecting only the most essential items for our trips.
When we came to embark on our third long roadtrip we were surprised at how empty the back of our van looked- had we forgotten something? Where was all the stuff that had once filled that space? Were we just ultra minimalists now?
Having just a few cupboards and shelves for storage has forced us to live minimally, but it’s also taught us what few essentials we really need. It seems frivolous to need more than one pair of jeans, several sets of cups or heaps of items for “just in case”.
We’ve mastered the art of having just enough and we feel happier for it, our shoulders lighter without all these pointless possessions to weigh us down. Everything we need fits inside this van of ours, and everything we want is waiting right outside our door.
When we arrived in Albania on an unseasonably warm January day our hearts were fraught with a mixture of emotions: comfort, familiarity, but also a degree of hesitation. We had fond memories of our time in this country, but were they simply painted bright by nostalgia, and would our second visit live up to expectation?
Our answers to these questions came on just our second day here.
We’d spent the day basking in sunshine, washing our van and dipping our bodies into the icy waters of Lake Prespa, and were just beginning to enjoy one of those spectacular Albanian sunsets which painted the mountains the particular shade of purple that was so ingrained into our memories. We went to fire up the engine but our van refused to start; the batteries were too flat, the air too cold. The engine got slower and slower until it had no juice left to give. We were now faced with the prospect of a night here with no power, no heating and no light; we’d seen approximately three cars all day and the light outside was rapidly fading.
Yet somehow, whether by miracle or fate or pure coincidence, a car approached just two minutes later. We waved them down, explained as best we could what had happened, and the man along with all six members of his family came over to help us. We had no jump leads but this didn’t deter him, and in the most Balkan display of ingenuity and problem solving he had our van running in no time by swapping our battery with the one from his car, starting the engine then swapping them back around while it was still running. He even fixed the loose positive terminal with a screw.
Feeling like we’d been a burden we offered him a shot of rakia as a thank you and his face lit up; they then immediately invited us to join them for their son’s birthday party at a nearby restaurant. Instead of spending a cold, dark night in our van we spent the evening drinking, sampling local cuisine, having conversations via Google Translate, eating homemade baklava and birthday cake and toasting each member of the table with a hearty, “ë!”
What a welcome back into Albania.
Our last few days in Macedonia were spent enveloped in a freezing fog which shrouded our view and promised snow which never came. We woke up daily to frost inside the windscreen and icicles hanging off our van. The fog wrapped itself around every plant, every rock and every being, leaving each wrapped in thick kisses of ice, turning the entire landscape silver and white without a snowflake ever falling from the sky.
We were camped up on the peaceful shores of Lake Prespa, undisturbed by anyone, wrapped up in thick layers of blankets against the minus temperatures outdoors.
Truthfully, the Macedonians were used to colder climates this time of year, and -7°C at night was the result an unseasonably mild winter; we had returned to the country expecting snow, and we were leaving disappointed on that front.
But we were leaving confident that we had made the right decision to return; after cutting our time here short to leave for Greece in December we’d been aching to explore more of the country, and we’d been fortunate enough to enjoy an extra two weeks here getting to know the southern regions and the Macedonian way of life.
We’d met some lovely people, experienced welcoming in the Orthodox New Year with rakija and fireworks, witnessed the crazy tradition of jumping into ice cold water on Epiphany Day, sampled delicious food and learned so much about a country that had never even been on our radar.
That morning we left for Albania with conflict in our hearts; we were leaving for a country we’d long since fallen in love with, but we were leaving behind a blossoming romance with a land that had stolen our hearts and captured our souls.
Truthfully we loved the entirety of the Balkans, but we had found a special place in the very heart of the Balkan Peninsula, and when our trip was finally over Macedonia was where we’d be yearning to return.
99% of the time our van is not as tidy as it looks in photos.
It’s a tiny space, but it gets messy just as quickly as we can tidy it again.
Camera gear, shopping and clothes end up scattered across the floor, cupboards open while we’re driving, things fall over and smash on bumpy roads.
We squeeze as many days as we can out of our bedding and clothes before we have to wash them again, probably a few too many. When the cab’s not filled with puddles from the rain it’s usually coated in dust and mud.
Living in a van is far from the idyllic few minutes in which we snap the photos for our feed, before the mess overwhelms us again.
It’s challenging living your life in a 6m2 space shared between two of you. Our bed is our sofa, our office, our dining room; our kitchen doubles as a bathroom, a washroom, a hallway.
But that hour in the morning when all the clutter is cleared away, ready for the day’s adventure ahead, and those moments when we crawl into a freshly made bed with clean sheets from the laundrette, it’s little moments like these that seem somehow amplified and make us appreciate the simple things in life all the more.
It’s all too easy to simply pass through somewhere, admiring the scenery from a distance through dusty window panes like the hollow eyes of a TV screen.⠀
It’s much more complex and infinitely more rewarding to engage with life in other countries, to meet people and experience small snippets of culture through them, to learn what it means to be a local in even the most mundane sense, to really a country in a richer, more wholesome way.⠀
When you’ve assimilated into the local way of life, when you’ve learned things that could never be written in any guidebook, that is when one graduates from a tourist into a traveller.⠀
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The people are their country; a country is its people. And to pass through a place blissfully unaware of the locals and their customs is in our eyes to waste an opportunity.⠀
Without those chance encounters, without delving into new cuisines, without saying yes and throwing ourselves into whatever comes out way, how could we ever truly say we’ve seen the world?⠀
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When you travel you open yourself up to a wealth of experiences the world has to offer, both good and bad. But through these experiences you realise that the world isn’t such a dark, scary place as we’re led to believe. Most people we’ve met on our way have been good and kind, hospitable and welcoming. And the bad experiences are just lessons learned for the future.⠀
After all, we wholeheartedly believe that what you put out into the world, is what you receive back.⠀
Be good, be honest, be curious and be kind. And just see where the winds will take you.⠀
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P.S. This might just be my favourite photo from this trip, taken in one of my favourite corners of the world ⠀
Lately, if we could sum up our emotions in one word, it would be thankful.
Usually upon returning to the UK after many months of stimulating, enriching travel, with more experiences under our belts than we could put into words, it would be with heavy hearts a deep sense of melancholy.
This time however, we’e feeling relieved to be back on British soil. We’re grateful not to be trapped abroad with no means of supporting ourselves. We’re grateful we have a safe place to stay. And we’re grateful to have found work in these trying times doing something positive for the community.
Our hasty return to the UK was a long and epic tale of border crossings and breakdowns, but that’s a story we will tell in due course.
For now we’re safely tucked away in our little cosy home, living on the bare minimum as always, patching up the rust holes and mending broken parts after another incredible adventure.
Stay safe out there, you guys.
[We will continue to post photos and stories from our travels until our feed is up to date as we still have a huge backlog ]
Tell us: what have you been doing this weekend in isolation to keep yourself occupied? We need some tips!
On a particularly frosty Monday morning we rose earlier than the sun did, cameras in hand and blankets around our shoulders to capture the sunrise and encapsulate it in our memories.
The watercolour sky was awash with pale pinks and dusky orange, the jagged mountain peaks shrouding the horizon beyond. Below our camp spot sat the most pristine lake of emerald water, clear as glass, and a thick stream of cloud scooting across its surface before being sucked down into the valley below.
We stood patiently, cameras poised, as the fiery sunlight licked the tops of the mountains and slowly made its way down to their base. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the golden rays filtered through the peaks and burst through the chill in the air. The snaking dirt track beneath us was all of a sudden bathed in gold, the fog clouds set ablaze in the sky, and the warmth of a late winter’s day kissed our cheeks and unfroze our hands.
It felt like an achievement for us, a rare gift of total aloneness after several chaotic days amongst the city folk of Tirana, long before the first commuter minibuses would rumble their way down this track. We retreated to the van to reward ourselves with coffee, watching the sun scatter the orderly clouds into a haze of fog that enveloped the landscape and licked at our van.
An early start and a little less sleep had been a fair trade to enjoy this moment all to ourselves. We cradled our coffee cups and pored over maps, planning the day’s adventure ahead before the rest of the world had even pulled back the covers and risen out of bed.
Standing on the edge of the world with you.
We’re missing camp spots like this one in Albania as we self-isolate back in Cornwall after a nightmare drive getting back, but we still have many weeks worth of photos and travel stories to share with you all that will hopefully brighten your days.
Tell us what you’re up to if you’re self-isolating- we’re working on our huge backlog of travelogues for YouTube, repairing the many problems with our van and drinking countless cups of Yorkshire tea! ☕️
Over the years we’ve travelled our humble van’s back doors have framed a thousand views. They’ve shown us mountains, they’ve shown us shores; they’ve housed sunsets and sunrises, put on lightning shows and been blanketed in snow.
Hundreds of views, bordered by those strips of metal and wood, have passed beyond these doors like projector slides, temporary homes, our van the only constant as we go.
The view is our reward at the end of the day’s adventure; the more effort, the greater the prize. Adrift from civilisation, at the end of some nowhere dirt track, is where we can find the peace and solitude that we crave.⠀
We can become so overwhelmed by the vastness and beauty of what we’re seeing sometimes that our eyes become blind to it, but sitting from the comfort of our bed gazing out across the horizon has a way of grounding us and reminding us of where we are and how far we’ve come.
Like framing a photograph, sometimes all it takes is a little shift in perception to appreciate what’s been in front of you all along.
