Beauty in the Rot

Before we get to the cottage, there is a caravan. 

I didn’t fall for the caravan the same way I did for the cottage, am not moved to call 

“I love you!” every time I leave it, the way I do with the cottage. 

I do not adore its flimsy walls, do not savour its distinctive scent, do not relish the way it shakes and wobbles under my feet when I dance. Not yet. 

I bought the caravan when it became apparent that it would be some time before living in the cottage herself was either viable or healthy.

 Despite having camped there in summer months, having made nice her one tiny bedroom, having had lovers there and family meals there and freezing, life affirming showers there, one short trip away with windows all closed resulted in little speckles of black mould appearing on my pillowcases like inverse stars - this cottage is strong and wise, but neglected. She is not well enough yet to house me. 

I had been living at home with my parents again for almost seven years, which was nearly as long as I had been away. I had achieved many things in that time, but I couldn’t escape the dreadful thought that all I was good at now was being on my phone and spending money. The idea of buying a temporary dwelling that I can stay in while I bring the cottage back to life catches me like a rabid fever. Now I really had something to shop for. I was shopping  to change my life.

Initially the idea of a mobile home appeals. More space to dance.  

I find the owner of a mobile home park in my soon to be new town and I introduce myself. 

He shares the same name as my nephew and I take this as a good sign. I tell him as much.

He turns out to be a good man. He shows me the two mobile homes he has that are within my meagre budget. He extends a warm and open invite to the Salsa dance evenings he attends, a nice way for me to meet new people while doing something I love. 

He offers to come and look at my site, to make sure getting a mobile home on it is possible. 

It is not. 

“Go for a caravan,” he tells me, “you can drive it on site and they hold their value better too, you could get your money back when you're done.”

Back on Done Deal, this time looking at caravans. 

I don't know the first thing about caravans. I text a friend whose father knows about caravans. I browse and establish which layouts might suit my needs best. I watch some Youtube videos on what to look out for when buying a caravan. I see a lovely looking one - just right! - for sale from a dealership. I call to enquire. 

Sold already! 

What about this other one? 

Sold too!

Oh my goodness. 

I had no idea the caravan trade was so fast-paced.  

While at work the following day, I see the dealership list a new caravan. It seems good, space in the back to make my bedroom, with the living area up front under the big, bright windows. I ask for more photos, they arrive quickly. The dealership is at least three hours away, it would be a few days before I can make the journey. 

“I’ve a woman coming in the morning,” says the dealer, “she’s very keen on this one too. If you pay your deposit I’ll hold it for you, no problem.”

A deposit is €1,000. The remaining  €2,300 can be paid, in cash, when they deliver my caravan to my door, sometime next week. 

I am gripped by fever. Manic. This caravan must change my life. 

I transfer €1,000 immediately. 

Sitting on the couch with my parents that evening, watching TV, it begins to dawn on me what I have done.

I had just handed over one thousand euros to a caravan dealer, for a caravan that I've never seen. 

For the first time, I search the internet for reviews of the dealership. There are many, but one word stands out: “Cowboys.”

I contact my bank and get through to the fraud support line. 

I tell them I want to report fraud but also that it probably wasn't fraud because I had done it of my own volition, with my own knowledge, understanding everything I was being asked.  I had willingly given my money away, but could the bank please do everything they could to get it back because I’m not convinced there will ever be a caravan dropped to my front door? A fraud case is opened, for which I feel strangely guilty and a little nervous, in case it is ever traced back to me. 

Days pass. My fraud case is closed: no suspicious activity. The delivery date of my caravan gets delayed, then delayed again. The knot in my stomach grows. 

When communicating via text with the caravan dealer, I decide to take what I hope is an infectiously positive and trusting attitude. I send messages like:

“I trust you are doing your absolute best for me, thank you, safe journey.”

I feel totally and utterly vulnerable. 

Finally, late one wet September night, my caravan is dropped to my door. 

Actually, I ask for it to be brought to the local pier first, where there are streetlights and enough distance not to be able to trace me back to my parents house, should the worst happen and I need to do some kind of runner.(This idea makes me want to laugh and cry -what would I be running from? The money I threw away?!) 

 My parents come to the pier with me to inspect my latest purchase. The young man who is delivering it is friendly, open. He happily stands out in the drizzle to stretch his legs while I go inside with my mother. 

There is a huge leak over the front windows.The front right seam has obviously been badly repaired. Moist wallpaper crumbles under my touch. The smell of damp catches in my nostrils. I’m tempted to cry. 

I point out the very obvious leak to the delivery driver. 

“I just deliver them, but I’ll get himself on the phone for you and you can have a word with him.” He’s very calm, he takes all this in his stride. 

On the phone, the dealer is impatient, it’s nearly 11pm. 

“If you don’t want it, we’ll take it back, no problem.”

“What about my deposit, can I use it on another caravan?”

“Your deposit is gone.” 

I consult with my parents and we agree that the best thing to do is keep the caravan and simply make the best of it. As if I had any choice. I get three hundred euro off the price and the delivery driver skillfully tows the caravan right up to the house. We invite him in for a tea, but he’s happier to get straight back on the road. I go to bed with the heady mixture of relief combined with the knowledge that I have just spent €3,000 on a leaky, mouldy caravan. 

 The next morning, I go to inspect my new abode in the daylight. I gingerly pull bits of plasterboard out to reveal more and more rot. I become overwhelmed. A little angry.  

I ring the caravan dealer I tell him:

“It’s full of rot”

 “I don't know what to tell you,” he says, “you paid for it. I told you I don't look at those, they’re trade ins, sold as seen. If it was one of the new ones, well that’s a different story. Something wrong with one of those and I take it straight back, do everything I can to make it right.” (and there are plenty of good reviews to corroborate this, reader.) 

I get a bit teary, “It’s all my money,” I whisper. 

I feel like the most foolish princess in all the land. 

“What are you going to do with it?” he asks

“Live in it,” I say, allowing a hint of indignance into my voice. 

“Well then live in it,” he is devoid of any sympathy, and I find myself respecting him for it, 

 “Patch it up and just live in it, then sell it for the same money when you’re done. It’ll be grand.” 

These were the last few days of wonderful sun. As I stripped out more and more of my caravan,  more and more rot revealed itself, and with every piece of soft plywood I mustered optimism for my new life. 

Then, as the nights closed in, the weather broke and it began to rain. For nights on end, I would be woken up in the early, early hours by monsoon-like downpours thundering on my bedroom roof, and I would think of my caravan out there, leaking, leaking, leaking. 

I learned quickly that trying to fix a leak in the rain is a fool’s errand, and so my caravan sat there in front of my parents house, on bad days becoming a symbol of all I had not achieved, not finished, all I had wasted and allowed to rot. Entering it did not fill me with hope and fantasies of my new life, and every time I would start on one job, five more would immediately make themselves known and I would stop altogether, completely overcome with all that lay before me and how little I knew about how to tackle it. 

Until today. 

Today I stopped pussyfooting around the obvious, thinking I could just do patches here and there. Today a patch of life growing from the rot in my caravan looked as majestic as the night sky. Today my new music app finally hit on a vein of music that made me want to move, and move I did in my shakey, mouldy caravan. 

“Fuck it,” I said, “FUUUCK IT!” 

I have accepted that this is what I must do. Make a shell of it. Start again. Strip it all back to bare bones, to build it back up with natural materials, bring it back to health. Fall in love with it. 

I have no idea how, but I will. 

I trust. I trust. I trust.