Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop. Rebecca Raisin

the first time in aeons but by the look on her face the sound is more maniacal than I intend. The jungle, that’s one way to describe it. ‘I have. I’ve just come from London. The urban jungle.’

      The unreality of my situation hits me and I just feel so … disconnected from my old life, my old self, and while it’s strange, it also produces a feeling of wild jubilation. From this very moment on, I can be whoever I choose to be!

      She holds out a hand to help me up. I pray my legs carry me after being ramrod in Poppy for so long. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’

      I follow the girl to a bathroom and jump in fright when I see my reflection in the mirror. There’s no way she could have been judging my eyebrows or any of my face for that matter, because she can’t have seen it under all the caked-on grime from the muddy puddle and who knows what else. Bloody hell! I look like I’ve just participated in a mud wrestling competition, and even my hair sticks out at odd angles, probably because I spent the better part of the drive pulling at it.

      ‘Did you sleep rough?’ she asks, concern on her face.

      ‘No, gosh no. The mud is the culprit. It’s amazing that I can find the only puddle from here to the never-never, but there you go.’ After I’ve cleaned up as best I can, we head back outside. Poppy makes the strangest hissing sound and I give her a quick once-over to determine where the noise is coming from.

      ‘The tyre!’ Air slowly leaks from the front tyre and Poppy droops to the right, as if she’s exhausted. ‘It’s OK,’ I say more to myself than anyone. ‘I’m sure I can …’ I realise I’ve never changed a tyre in my life, and wouldn’t have the foggiest how to go about it.

      Bloody hell, who goes travelling around the countryside without knowing how to change a tyre? It defies belief that I could have overlooked such a thing. Me, methodical to a fault, queen of contingency plans.

      ‘Don’t panic,’ the girl says. ‘I can help you change it. Do you have a spare?’

      Oh golly. ‘I’m sure I must do. I guess van maintenance slipped my mind.’

      ‘I can also give you some pointers on the mechanical side of things. I’m a gun at oil changes and whatnot now, anything to save money, right? I’m Aria, by the way,’ she says, holding out a hand, which I find endearing since my own hands are stained black after my ordeal.

      ‘Great. I’m Rosie.’ We shake and she gives me a wide smile as if my presence has brightened her day.

      ‘How’d you find us here?’

      ‘I stumbled across the Van Lifers online forum and got chatting to a guy called Oliver who told me this was a good starting point, close enough to Wales to stock up and get my bearings.’

       You mad, mad thing.

      My body aches in strange places, and I’d found the drive as hard as being in command of a busy kitchen. A different sort of hard.

      ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says, flashing bright white teeth.

      ‘Me too,’ I say, and find myself meaning it.

      ‘The Van Lifers forum is great. Lots of tips on there, maps, market and festival info, that kind of thing. Plenty of people offering support.’

      I nod, overwhelmed by the environment. It’s like I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and arrived in a parallel universe. Checked shirts are obviously a prerequisite. A group of bearded hipsters sit around a campfire, as a gorgeous brunette strums a guitar and sings a haunting song. A few play cards on fold-out tables, some hang washing under their awnings, while others bustle about packing their vans in readiness to leave. A handful give me a wave as I walk past, and I smile tentatively back.

      I’m not like them. I sense it already. They exude this sort of worldly air, a certain grace as if they’re comfortable in their own skin, with their open faces and wise eyes that sparkle with all they’ve seen. But I’m determined to sink into this lifestyle and find the ease they all wear in their ready, lazy smiles.

      Aria pulls me from my reverie. ‘I’ll make you a brew and we can chat.’

      She opens the door to her little van and I gasp as the inside comes to life under flickering candlelight. It’s a utopia for bibliophiles. Rickety bookshelves line the sides of the van, filled to the brim with chaotically stacked books. On the floor, cane baskets cradle bundles of vintage Mills and Boon books, bound together with string. Every nook and cranny is bursting with novels, candles, cushions or rugs and the scent of recently brewed coffee lingers in the air.

      While I understand how this would appear like a nirvana for most, for me it produces a sense of unease. This kind of clutter all begins innocently enough. A few things here, then there. Then everywhere.

      ‘You have a travelling bookshop?’ I say and then mentally slap my forehead.

      ‘The Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After. I sell romance novels. Word nerd at your service.’ She salutes and I can’t help but laugh.

      ‘Word nerd has a nice ring to it.’

      The dim space is perfumed by posies of fresh wild flowers, and scented candles. Coupled with the aroma of old books, there’s a musty dustiness that hints of times gone by. An old, wrinkled, leather high-back chair sits squished against the side of the van and I bet it’s where Aria spends most of her days.

      There’s a bunch of ruched velvet ruby cushions stacked in a pile, textured woolly throw rugs drape from hooks. I imagine whiling away time in the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After would appeal to bookworms everywhere, but another thing concerns me, and I grapple with whether I should speak up or not.

      It’s usually these little truth bombs that tend to detonate in my face, but it’s actually a matter of life or death – so I decide to be honest and figure out a subtle way to broach the subject.

      I clear my throat. ‘Should you leave burning candles unattended?’ I ask in the nicest possible way, when really I mean, ‘you most certainly should not leave burning candles unattended, especially with so many books laying haphazardly around’. While Aria rescued me from the depths of a muddy puddle, her entire livelihood could have gone up in flames – it’s only fair I should warn her. It’s what I imagine a good friend would do.

      She laughs, a big haw that startles me coming from such a wisp of a thing. ‘They’re all part of the ambiance, they add to the romance! People wander in when I’m not here so I want them to feel at home. Feel comforted. And what better way to do that than with the scent of old books and sweet-smelling candles?’

      My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You let people come in here without you being present?’ What if they go through her things? Read her diary. Nap on her bed? Or worse, steal books?

      ‘Sure I do! They leave a note if they borrow a book, or money in the kitty over there if they buy something.’ Aria points to an unassuming pastel green unlocked cash box. I know it’s unlocked because the padlock sits next to it, rusted open as if it’s spent the better part of its life in the sea. Surely strangers would take advantage?

      ‘But …’ Words fails me.

      ‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

      I move to the wrinkly leather chair and it sighs as I sink into its weathered embrace. I fight the urge to tidy, to right fallen books, to fold the rugs. Be cool, Rosie.

      ‘So,’ I say, squaring my shoulders. ‘Is everyone this erm … lax with their vans?’ I could always go back to London, it’s not too late. Get my old job back. Live in some bedsit I’ll jokingly refer to as the crack den. Start over. Adopt a rescue dog. Buy one of those lint brushes to remove pet fur from my clothing. Invest in some quality sneakers for all the walkies I’ll take Rover on. I picture myself, getting dragged along by a slobbery French mastiff, my life literally going around in circles. But where’s the fun in that? No, I must stay resolute and wait for my shiny, sparkly brand new life to take off. I