The Kind of Place I Could Live Forever

Like most people, I want to live somewhere beautiful, I used to think about this a lot when I was caged up in that hole of a flat on the isle of dogs in London. I felt sorry for my flatmate, she wanted to fit in, climb the ladder in the city, I just couldn’t share her energy, didn’t want to think about those things, I wanted to get away. That city had me in its evil clutches there and then, when you see the worst side of a place there’s no getting away from it, within a few months my view of bright lights and endless activity had degraded down to a cold, grey, lonely urban wasteland.

It was the hottest summer ever in Europe, 2003 – a perfect time to get away from it all, thankfully, two other friends (Bren and J) had drawn this same conclusion, and that was the only excuse we needed. Bren had a car and we found a caravan in the local paper for £50; it should be good enough to get us there and back, and for a few more trips after that…….??!! Of course we were hopeful with these assumptions, some would say foolish, but in my view you’d be a fool to turn down a chance for an adventure like this.

Just a few hours later, our adventure began, began with a sour taste – stuck on the side of the A303, the caravan was old, very old, made of steel and not aluminium it was heavy, very heavy. The car engine just blew up, couldn’t tow our £50 beast, that last slow up hill drive after passing Stonehenge was just too much. We would not make the ferry that evening, spent three hours stuck on the side of a busy road on the hottest day ever recorded in Britain.

Eventually rescued, we had to plan our escape once more and we had to get a new car, it was the only way. Amazingly that same evening, we had wheels again, the mechanic who’d towed us back took pity on us and told us about this mate of his who was selling an old big red Peugeot for a bargain price, it would be perfect! From that point on things started to turn round, we bought the car, and after a night of plans and a few spliffs, we were off the following morning, this time with an ace up our sleeve. It was the mother of J’s girlfriend who had the cottage, a beautiful thatched cottage in southern Brittany; miles from a newly built plaster board flat on the isle of dogs. She had heard of our misfortune, and instantly told us to stay at the cottage, use it as a base; treat it like it was our own!!

It was mostly a great journey after the ferry, smooth until we were within a few miles of our destination, then two more needless hours with countless U-turns trying to locate OUR cottage. When we eventually did, and I saw it, you couldn’t wipe that smile off my face, we may have only had little over three weeks there, but I knew then that this was the kind of place I could live forever.