Six weeks in a caravan.... in autumn. Insane.

Over the years I have come to realise I am a spontaneous idealist. Not my words... the official name (according to personality tests) for people who love new adventures and grow bored when life repeats itself. 

This definitely sums up my husband and I, and explains why we thought moving out of our gorgeous two bed, garden flat in north London and into a 20 foot caravan, in the middle of nowhere, would be a good idea. At the time I thought, without hesitation, "Can't wait, I'm in."

However, reality hit us, about three weeks later when we were living in the middle of a field in Hertfordshire. Three miles from any food shops and surrounded by rivers, wildlife and bone-chilling wind. In hindsight we should have chosen June and not November to embark on a new life outside.

Anyway, we've been here for  six weeks now. The change of lifestyle is huge. Something, I naively wasn't at all prepared for. I assumed it would be an adventure, which of course it is. But we are surrounded by people who seemed to have checked out of normal life. Including a 50-something Australian chap who's sleeping in a one man tent, in -2 degrees with no cooker, no food, not even a camping chair or torch. Nutter. 

The buzz of London life is a distant memory. Our caravan sits adjacent to a river so every morning I wake up, look out at 32 acres of countryside and witness the morning ritual of ducks and swans paddling and washing themselves. Also a huge gaggle of geese walking around aimlessly, following each other in a neat line, squawking, accompanied by the occasional partridge and/or pheasant. 

I miss being able to pop to our local shop at 11pm, after deciding on a whim I want a bottle of wine, a packet of Monster Munch and a Curly Wurly. There’s no food spontaneity in the countryside. Late in the caravanning world is 8pm. Late on London’s clock can be anywhere between 11pm - 3am. I miss city life after dark.

Gone is my self-indulgent, five-door London wardrobe and in turn the constant moaning of my husband Jimmy for all my clothes hoarding. All girls know it’s not hoarding… that curiously pale, denim jumpsuit WILL come back into fashion one day, won’t it?

Now my wardrobe, if you can even call it that, holds exactly 25 hangers. However, I quickly realized you can double, even triple up. I have over 50 items neatly hanging, and three shelves full of jumpers, jeans and tops. I’m happy with that. I also have six pairs of shoes (not including wellies, trainers etc), which, given the size of our new home, feels quite decadent. The rest of my beloved shoe collection is neatly laid out in my old bedroom, at my parent’s home. Sigh.

I can’t lie, I really miss London nightlife and hobnobbing at showbiz parties - taking full advantage of the free champagne, canapés and of course the goodie bags.

But I won't moan, as our caravan has all the mod cons - central heating, hot shower, DVD player, built in radio and digital TV, so I can keep up to date with Eastenders, MIC and X Factor. Bizarrely, we now get faster Wi-Fi in the middle of a meadow, than we did forking out £60 a month for BT Infinity in London. 

Little things excite me now, like being able to pop to the campsite shop in the morning and get fresh eggs and bread.  Also seeing our cat stretched out, blissfully, in the sun-soaked spot she’s found by the caravan front window.  She’s been looking longingly and eagle-eyed at all the wildlife surrounding us. So will no doubt feel crestfallen when we attach her new collar and loud bell next week. 

In the nine years I've had her she's never worn a bell, but we’re sure the campsite owners wouldn’t approve of a bird, duck and swan massacre. Although Jimmy is praying she'll catch a pheasant so he can make a pie. As if. 

Last time my mum shot, plucked and cooked a pheasant she caught fleas from it. Talk about karma.