The caravan door splits in two halves, a stable door arrangement so that I can lean out like an amiable horse and watch the world go by. A brown kettle boils on the gas although face washing happens up at the barn: a stand-by tap lagged with fertiliser sacks bound with bailer twine.
While the kettle boils I set off on a path that follows an oak wood where grey squirrels run rampant.
Once or twice a year the farmer comes down with his gun and shoots them. Tree rats he calls them. At this time of the year the path is dry as dust and I keep on going until I reach a hollowed out tree that somehow hasn’t died after being blasted with lightening.
Regular as clockwork, I look up and see the brown owl in her usual place perched on the branch. I wish her good morning and she stares right back.
I turn on my heels and make the journey in reverse.
The caravan door is still open and by now the kettle is boiled. Coffee, cigarette then a walk in the opposite direction to where my car is parked. The car is six months younger than me and smells like a museum, antiquated dials on the dashboard and sixties red vinyl seats. A vehicle from the past slowly taking me into the future.