Our motorhome life in statistics.
Days since leaving the UK: 479
Countries visited: 11
Miles travelled: 21,589
Miles Per Gallon (MPG): 21.3
Cost per mile: £0.27
Total fuel cost: £5,829
The weather yesterday: 59°F and sunny all day (Hooray!)
Yesterday was a ‘doing’ day. We try to group tasks so that I don’t have to drive every day. After twenty-one thousand miles on the road, I’m as comfortable as I’m ever going to be at the wheel of a twenty-five-foot steel and plastic box, but negotiating the narrow and unknown streets of an ever-changing number of towns and villages causes a certain amount of stress.
Cynthia and I like to wild camp as much as possible. The length of time we can stay away from civilisation is dictated by our water supply. Our potable water tank holds one hundred litres. In a bricks and mortar home where turning a tap produces an unlimited supply of the wet stuff, one hundred litres doesn’t go very far.
According to the This is Money website, a household tap delivers water at six litres a minute. At that rate, our tank would be empty in seventeen minutes. One hundred litres is roughly the amount you could fit in a bath, as long as you don’t want to climb into it.
Each morning follows the same pattern. I climb out of bed early, make a coffee, try very hard not to wake Cynthia, and try even harder not to wake ever-energetic Abbie. I need to focus on work. I need to find a way of generating more of an income. We rely on Cynthia’s pension too much. Cynthia doesn’t mind. I do. I’m supposed to be the hunter-gatherer, the provider. I’m not.
So I take my MacBook and my coffee, unfold my Lavolta bed table, climb onto the Hymer’s fixed rear double bed. I tether the laptop to my iPhone 7 Plus, sip my coffee and compose my thoughts. I’m focused and ready to work.
After two days watching our aire slowly submerge under a purple sky filled with endless rain, we drove south for half an hour to Leucate. We visited this area several times last year. There’s a well-equipped aire close to the beach, a few decent wild camping spots and, highest on Cynthia’s list of priorities, a decent laverie, a launderette, open daily until 10pm.
Cynthia wasn’t quite so keen on whipping out her dirty smalls when she noticed the laverie’s only other customer. A middle-aged homeless man, stinking of whiskey and urine, slouched at a table normally reserved for folding clean clothes. As laying out our freshly laundered bedding would mean moving his grimy radio, plastic pack of rolling tobacco and two full whiskey bottles, we decided not to bother.