Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: ROAD TRIP (vacation) (07/02/15)
-
TITLE: Vera's Cargo - Stinking Hippies Not! | Previous Challenge Entry
By Danielle King
07/08/15 -
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES
“NO! Cuddles stays home!”
To be fair, it was a very small - and disgustingly old - van. Like the stray feline, we took it in out of pity, albeit self-pity generated by the fact that we had no other means to satisfy our wanderlust. Moggy would take up valuable space, better reserved for the emergency night-time bucket.
Mrs Parker, aptly named, lived next door. Her snout claimed squatter’s rights atop our fence. “Where will you stay,” she asked.
“Oh… Hotel Vauxhall Transit.” She looked puzzled.
“Where’s that?”
“Right here.” I gestured towards our new purchase.
“NO!” Poor soul looked ashen.
Mother’s motto was ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’ It was the early 70’s and Ron and I, just two years wed, had recently moved into a new house. The mortgage gobbled up most of our income.
Trouble was, we both suffered a curious malady – impetuosity. There was no known cure other than indulgence. So we did. We named her Vera.
We headed for Whitby, an ancient fishing port and resort set on the North Yorkshire Heritage Coast, steeped in history and legends of smugglers - and Dracula!
With tinned rice pudding and Spam rattling around in the back and me the honourable map reader he got us lost on the moors. He said I suffered a major map reading malfunction. I said he sellotaped the wrong roads together.
Ding Dong! Round one.
Arriving well after dark, we parked up our ramshackle hotel on the cliff tops. It was eerily quiet for a sea-side resort but we were too exhausted to care. Instead we climbed into the back and crashed out.
We were rudely awakened by a pounding on the door. It was daylight and seagull pooh splattered the windscreen. Ron crawled out to be confronted by a pint sized lady threatening him with a clenched fist.
“Stinking hippies,” she railed. “Squatting on consecrated ground.” I slithered out to the disquieting view of the legendary Whitby Abbey.
We were parked in the graveyard!
Back to the moors; Route check correct. Oh dear…
Now who was responsible for placing that steep hill in our path? Divine retribution? Nah. God is not petty. With a leap of faith, on a wing and a prayer we tackled it head on…
We clambered out of our deceased motor eternally grateful that she reached the top. Ron’s knowledge of engines was zilch. A passing motorist spotted our plight and pulled up. “Need a hand?” He called. A smartly dressed chap, he rolled up his white sleeves and disappeared under the bonnet.
After some time he declared that the carburettor was full of ‘muck’ but he’d fixed it. Ron offered him cash from our scant fuel allowance, but he waved it aside with a cheery, “Happy camping guys.”
Unhindered we travelled inland to the picturesque Yorkshire Dales National Park. A delightful spot beside the fast flowing river Swale enticed us to stay the night. It took all of ten minutes to realise why the entire riverbank was deserted. Too late. I was covered in midge bites.
Undeterred we scratted around in the emergency pot. Funds were low but appetites had more pulling power.
Over the road a 17th century Inn, The Punch Bowl, displayed a menu board. We scanned it for the cheapest offering.
“What’s with the face?” commiserated a portly chap enjoying a bevvy outside. I recounted our adventure to date and he chortled merrily. “Come inside,” he said. “Stay the night and leave after breakfast.”
I was hesitant. Was he luring us in for some seedy purpose? Ron was desperate and thanked the owner profusely.
The following morning we shook hands and thanked him all over again before returning to fly splattered Vera.
By the end of the week we’d travelled 1,000 miles without leaving our home county. Vera coughed and spluttered a little, Ron was cross-eyed and I was longing for a hot soak.
Our maiden voyage happened 40 plus years ago. It sparked a passion for the itinerant lifestyle that never died, though we’ve moved a bit upmarket from old Vera now.
But my prevailing memory, a gift I strive to nurture, was the kind-heartedness of the non-judgemental strangers, who without reward, chose to help us out.
Through them God’s light shone brightly.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.
God bless~
I can understand why va-cation did not become your vo-cation, as it must have been a grave discovery to find you'd camped in a cemetery. A slight correction is also needed for the old saying- for where there's a will there are usually many relatives - or is that tomb much to add?
Loved the light touch throughout, though some (non-UK) readers may wonder what you had been doing in a "motor" - which we would think to be only the engine - rather than the whole vehicle...