Life in the Lay- By: The Truth Behind Vanlife in the UK

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Series: Between Lay-Bys – Real Life on the Road

I’ve lived in a van across the UK for over six years. Not for Instagram. Not for a trend. For real life. Most nights don’t start with sunsets and wine glasses. They start with lay-bys. And a decent dose of doubt.

The lay-by is where it all happens. It’s the vanlifer’s pub, panic room, and refuge. It’s where I’ve eaten, slept, fixed leaks, ridden out storms, and questioned everything. 90% of the time? I’m on my tod.

Getting used to this way of living is a shock at first — new surroundings, new routines, and that gnawing worry about whether you’ve done the right thing.

But here’s the thing: it doesn’t stay like that. Once you tough it out, the road starts to make more sense, and it feels less like chaos and more like home

In for the Night – The Insecurity Nobody Posts About

You pull in just before dark. That’s the unspoken rule — never after. If you land late, you’re already on the back foot, taking whatever patch of tarmac hasn’t been claimed, your options are limited

So you do the usual vanlife tango: is it flat? Is it lit? Can I tuck myself out the way without ending up on somebody’s CCTV? Can I park facing outward, ready to go at short notice?

Then the door slides shut and it’s just you, the thin skin of metal, and whatever the night decides to throw at you. The first bang outside, and your brain starts producing a crime drama. Every rustle is a burglar. Every gust of wind is a drunk lad trying your handle. Every fox rummaging in the bin is basically a wolf pack sent to finish you off.

It’s daft, because nine times out of ten it’s nothing. A wheelie bin lid. A hedgehog. A crisp packet caught under the tyre. But when you’re parked in a strange lay-by with condensation creeping up the windows, your imagination doesn’t care about statistics. You go straight to worst case: “This is it. Tonight’s the night.”

Here’s the trick,

Every lifer goes through it. The nerves on those first nights are universal.. Every bump, every laugh outside, every crunch of gravel – it all sets your heart going. But over time, something shifts. You start to tune in to the rhythm of the road. You don’t just stop anywhere anymore. You get a feel.

Lay-bys have a vibe. It’s hard to explain. Some you pull into and you know, straight away — nope. Not tonight. Too close to the road. Too dark. Too isolated. Or too lively.

You learn to trust that gut feeling. The instinct sharpens with every cold night and dodgy knock.

That’s vanlife reality. It’s not fairy lights and sunsets. It’s you, trying to boil a kettle while wondering whether that thud outside is a bin bag or the start of a zombie film.

Welcome to the road.

Just a passing observation….

And not many people mention it, but those random horn blasts from lorries and cars? Aye, they happen. Usually at 2am when you’ve just nodded off. Why do they do it? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s bitterness. Maybe it’s just their little nightly ritual of “sod you.” Adds a nice jolt of adrenaline, though. Thanks, lads.

And yeah, sometimes it’s not the drunks or the police, let’s not forget the lay-by unmentioned.

it’s the entertainment. The ones they call doggers. Didn’t expect that to become part of my vanlife vocabulary, but here we are. At first, you panic, and get ready to report on social media “Doggers found”

Bit of movement in the car park next to you. Flash of headlights. Bloke alone in his car with the window down a crack. Then another car pulls in. And you’re thinking: this is it. I’m about to witness something I can’t unsee. And you will. Eventually.

But once you clock the code

Headlight flashes, parked facing outwards, windows cracked just so — it becomes background noise. A weird little subculture doing its thing while you lie in the back of your van eating crisps and hoping your battery doesn’t die before morning.

Lights off. Curtain slightly open. Pure Channel 5 documentary. You’re not into it, but you’re not not watching either. It’s harmless, really. And oddly, they’re the most respectful bunch. Never had one bother me. No shouting, no knocking, no mess. Just part of the scenery now. Like rain or diesel fumes.
You adapt. You harden up. You laugh at stuff that used to stress you out.

It’s slowly getting better

Like cold nights. The kind that used to send you scrabbling for campsite hookups. Now you know where to park so you’re not under trees dripping condensation onto your roof. You wedge towels against draughts. You put your socks over the air vent. You’ve got a system.
And when you get it right — when you find a lay-by that’s quiet, level, and has half-decent 4G — it’s like a five-star hotel. Bin nearby? Luxury. Streetlight not flickering like a horror film? Jackpot.

A Comrade

Now and then, you spot another van. Mutual nod. Quiet solidarity. Next thing you know, it’s half twelve and you’re three mugs deep, talking about solar panels, rusty wheel arches, and which toilets don’t smell like a chemical spill. That’s the 10% magic.

Met a lot of vanlifers in my time. Proud lot. Resourceful. Honest. Some are winging it, sure. But some’ve got spreadsheets for everything. And I’ll say this now: the lone female vanlifers? They usually out-van the lot of us. Sharper. Tidier. Braver. I’m not daft, I notice.

So why the hell do we live like this?

Some of us choose it. We’ve had enough of the hamster wheel. No mortgage. No rent. No council tax. Freedom tastes better when it’s cheap. And honestly? I’d rather patch up my van roof with Gorilla tape than hand over another grand to a landlord who calls himself a ‘property entrepreneur.’

Others though, didn’t choose. Life kicked ’em down a few flights and they landed here. The 3″D’s” Divorce. Debt. Depression. A van can be the step before the street. For them, this isn’t a lifestyle. It’s survival. I haven’t lived it that way, but I’ve met lads who have. You feel it in the way they talk. And I’ll tell you now, those are the toughest out here.

Now, vanlife’s not all grit.

There’s good nights. Cosy ones. Heater ticking with that well-known rhythm. Rain tapping on the roof like it knows you by name. Feels like you’ve cracked it. Then the fuse goes. Or the dog throws up. Balance, innit?

This life teaches you what matters. And what doesn’t. You find out fast what you can live without. Most of it, as it happens.

You don’t need ten pairs of jeans. You need a good coat, a solid brew mug, and enough power to charge your phone. Everything else is optional.

But the biggest thing?

You learn to read the world better. When you live in a house, you can ignore your surroundings. You’ve got doors, locks, neighbours, streetlights. Safety by structure. In a van, you’re on your own. You read every face. Every car. Every shadow. You learn what time the dog walkers turn up. When the bin men come. Which spots are dodgy after dark.

Eventually, the nerves fade. You sleep through the horn blasts. You laugh at the doggers. You roll your eyes at the drunks. You become one of the shadows people don’t notice. You stop trying to explain it to your mates who think you’re on some kind of holiday.

This isn’t a sabbatical. It’s life, just in transit.

And this? This is just the start.
We’ve not even scratched the surface. We’ll get into how to earn a living on the road. Couples crammed into vans. Families doing school runs in converted builders’ vans. The weird politics between motorhomers and DIY vans. And parish snobs with nothing better to do than report “suspicious campers.” Spoiler: it’s always us.

But we’ll get to all that

If people want to hear it. If not, no sweat. Drop a ‘more’ in the comments below if you fancy me opening other cans of worms.