I woke up at 5am like I never did in the flat, dragged from sleep by the morning chorus — birds, distant engines, tyres crunching — sounds I’d never really paid attention to before. Bloody racket, I thought, but also… somehow alive.

I pulled down the quilt cover I’d draped over the sun visors covering the front windscreen and almost fell backwards. The dash was soaked. Soaking! Condensation everywhere. First proper look at it, and I felt like I’d walked into a misty swamp.

Then I heard it — a lorry firing up its engine right next to me, ticking over for what felt like forever. Exhaust fumes drifted into the van, and I muttered about how bloody inconsiderate it was. Then I paused. How would he even know I was in here?
Is this what I’ve got to get used to every morning? I rubbed my eyes and muttered, “Alright… first cuppa time.”

I grabbed my new second-hand kettle, filled it from my 25-litre water container — spilling a bit on the corner of my mattress in the process. “Bloody hell, be careful,” I muttered, trying not to panic.
Then I looked at the kettle, confused, sleep still in my eyes. “Where’s the lead? Where do I plug it in?” I stared at it like some kind of minor in a trance, until the lightbulb went on. Twat. You put it on the stove, don’t you? Come on, wake up.

I managed to work the ignition on the stove… nothing. Zero. Couldn’t get it to light. Pulled out the canister — shock, it was empty. Out of gas. No coffee for me. Bloody hell.
Well, two hours and I could get one at work, I thought. Not the perfect start, but a proper lesson. Welcome to vanlife, pal. Mistakes, spills, daft moments… and a long road of learning how to function before your caffeine hits

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Work was only a minute down the road on the same estate, so with two hours left to kill I crawled back into my kip. Phone out. Checking FB. Had I been accepted into that group I’d asked to join? Before I could find out — black screen. Apple logo. Flat battery. Friggin’ typical.
No bother, I thought. Dug out my charger lead, stuck it in the dash cig lighter. Nothing. Not a glimmer. Right then, keys in, I’ll just start the engine — like everyone on Facebook does in the morning (must be a done thing). Turned the key. Dead. Flat as a pancake.

So there I was. Phone flat. Van flat. Me sat there wondering how the bloody interior lights managed to stay on all night when I thought they turned themselves off. Lesson learned the hard way: van electrics aren’t like house electrics, and ignorance will leave you stranded before breakfast.
No choice but to lock up and walk. The place was only a minute away, but it felt longer with every step, head full of daft mistakes. I’d need a mate with jump leads, no way around it. Embarrassing asking on the first morning, but that’s vanlife — humbling you before you’ve even had a brew.

Shift done, Got a mate at work to drive me back after my shift, him taking the piss like no tomorrow — but I’d have done the same if the boot was on the other foot. Fair play.

We got to the van, after searching for the battery for half an hour (who the hell puts a battery in the passenger footwell?), he hooked me up, and she fired into life straight away. I gave him a nod and a “cheers, mate,” and left it ticking over. Left it running for the best part of an hour, wincing at the thought of the diesel I was burning just to bring the battery back to life, but it also cleared the condensation from last night, a bonus.

Once I reckoned it was good to go, I set off for the supermarket — my first proper shopping trip as a vanlifer.
Trolley squeaking and refusing to go in a straight line like it knew I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. I needed a different mindset straight away. Not filling cupboards now, just thinking what fits in a cardboard box. Easy cook items only. Pot noodles by the dozen. Five litres of drinking water. Wet wipes, toilet roll, a pack of biodegradable toilet bags. Crisps and chocolate-covered digestives my fav, for when it all gets too much. A couple of cans of energy drink — treats, because they’re dear as owt. Long-life milk, seeing as I didn’t have a fridge yet. Granola for breakfast — saves firing up the stove.

I learnt all this from the new Facebook group I’d just been accepted into. Loads of good information, proper lifeline, still not quite sure why the wet wipes though?
All destined for the cardboard box under the passenger seat that doubled as my food cupboard. Strange, really — standing in a car park, loading my week’s shop into a box under a van seat. All done and dusted in minutes, no fridge to stack, no cupboards to rearrange. No fuss. I could get used to this.

I’ve got two storage methods already: clothes go in my mam’s old 10kg flight bag I borrowed 2 years ago when I went to Benidorm on a stag do, and the cardboard box under the passenger seat for all the foodstuff. Bloody got this sorted, haven’t I?
And the gas, aye. That had to be sorted, though I hadn’t a clue yet which canister fit my second-hand stove. Instagram made it look like you just “click and cook.” Reality was more like, “stand in the aisle scratching your head, wondering if you’ve bought a can of hairspray by mistake.”
After my first vanlife shop, I headed back to my park-up on the industrial estate. Not much had changed — a different HGV was in the spot now, curtains drawn tight. Comforting in a strange way to know that if the apocalypse started, there’d be someone else nearby, even if it was just a lorry driver snoring his head off behind blackout curtains.

I remembered that morning: engine running, fumes pumping into the van. This time I backed in by the hedge, sliding door facing the greenery. Safer, quieter, hidden. Upstairs for thinking, as my old man used to say.

Quilt cover again gingerly hung from the sun visor corners, edges tucked into the shape of the dash. Went outside, nose against the windscreen to see if anyone could see in, or light leaking out. Not perfect, but will do.

OK, second night here. Kettle still had the water from this morning, gas canister fitted a treat. Click, click… wahey! “Man-made fire!”
Kettle placed on the blue flame. The gas hissed and spat like a tiny dragon,. I perched on my new tea chest, the one we pinched from work when my mate came to jump-start me mesmerised by the little symphony of heat and fire, feeling oddly proud that I’d made it work
I stared at the kettle, mind wandering. My new lifestyle. Not so bad, really. It could be worse. Do I want to go back to flat life? Nooo. Early days, though. I’d read some never make it. Best to keep an open mind.

Then the kettle burst into song, whistling away like a good ’un.— calling you over like a faithful dog. I’d only ever seen these kettles on telly; it might have been that Carry On Camping film that my dad used to watch. Never thought I’d own one. I grinned, daft as owt, and poured my first cuppa in the van.

It wasn’t just a cuppa. It tasted like a small victory — proof I could make this work, even if only for tonight. Simple brew, but in that moment, it was everything.
Woops, nearly forgot — turn the bloody van interior lights off. Don’t want another flat battery. The van was dark, shadows crawling over the walls. Then I remembered that little light the old lady had given me. Hung it from a roof strut. Lit the van up a treat.

My mind drifted again (I do a lot of that). What must that light have meant to the old couple on dark nights? I pictured it glowing soft and warm in their little tent, casting just enough light to share a book while the wind rattled outside. Maybe it lit their faces as they laughed over something daft, or just sat in silence, content in each other’s company. I’ll never really know, but thank you, guys.

I lay back with my tea, staring at the glow, feeling like the lamp had carried some of their comfort into my van. Bare tin walls, mattress still on the floor, but with that little lamp swinging above me, it almost felt like a home.

Outside, a wagon changed gear and rumbled off down the estate. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. I pulled the sleeping bag over me, eyes on that light, mind whirring with a hundred what-ifs. Somewhere between worry and excitement… I drifted off.