A Dull Woman's Van Life

Late November 2025

Monday did not start well. It was one of those beautiful, cold, clear mornings that arrive as winter approaches—the kind that make you want to walk for hours in the sunshine. Sadly, I overslept and was late setting out. Determined not to waste the day entirely, I headed up Musbury Tor with the plan to take the north-side path that crosses Musbury Brook and loops back through the valley. Perfectly doable in forty minutes.

The light was glorious. I captured a few beautiful shots of the sunrise before descending towards the stile and the bridge over the brook. But as I approached, two very large cows lifted their heads from their resting place—directly in front of the stile.

Now this posed a problem. The Musbury cows are a placid lot, and I’ve encountered them many times, but I always give them a wide berth. You just never know. Walking up to a pair of one-tonne animals and politely asking them to move is not in my playbook. So, I needed an alternative route.

I took a side path which, as it turned out, was more of a cow track than an actual footpath and ended abruptly halfway down the slope. Ahead lay a wide patch of reeds, which experience has taught me are usually a cunning disguise for a deep, smelly bog—and I wasn’t in the mood for a mud bath. So I decided to head lower, down towards the brook.

And that’s where problem number two presented itself. The recent heavy rains had turned Musbury Brook from a gentle, burbling stream into a raging torrent. The nearest bridge was half a mile away, up a steep, tree-lined bank and over several dry-stone walls—completely in the wrong direction. As I pondered my options, Pepper took matters into her own paws. With one great leap, she bounded across the brook, landing gracefully on the opposite bank.

We were now on different sides.

I eyed the crossing, picked my moment, and stepped in. My attempt was considerably less graceful. My lovely knee-high boots, as it turns out, are only waterproof to a point—and the brook wasted no time in breaching that line. Freezing water flooded in, turning my woolly socks into sodden sponges. I slipped on a mossy rock, stumbled forward, and landed squarely on my knees in the mud.

There I was: dripping, muddy, and swearing quietly to myself while Pepper looked on from the far bank, tail wagging as if to say, “What kept you?”

I squelched my way home through the valley, boots sloshing with every step, arriving just in time to start work. Fortunately, my camera survived the ordeal unscathed—and, mercifully, there are no photos of my inelegant crossing or my dishevelled return.

Tuesday

After Monday’s misadventures, I decided a quieter evening was in order. With our stock of frozen van meals running dangerously low, I spent the night in the kitchen replenishing supplies.

On the menu: meatballs in roasted vegetable sauce. I loosely follow a beautiful recipe from Half Baked Harvest, though mine has evolved into a slightly rogue version over time. I use copious amounts of harissa and, this time, added finely chopped chorizo with a mix of pork and beef mince. The result is a rich, spiced dish with hints of paprika, smoke, and just the right touch of heat.

A trip to the farm shop earlier in the day had armed me with a basket of vegetables—heritage tomatoes, courgettes, and peppers in every colour. They went into the oven with a whole bulb of garlic, slow-roasted for an hour before being blended with tomato purée into a thick, ruby-red sauce. Combined with the meatballs, it made enough for dinner and two van meals for future adventures.

While the oven was still warm, I couldn’t resist a bit of baking. I made a carrot cake—but with a festive twist. I’d found a jar of Christmas curd in a local deli a few weeks ago, and it seemed a shame not to use it. I spread it through the middle of the cake and finished it with cream cheese icing laced with mixed spice. Sweet, tangy, and ever so slightly Christmassy.

Once the icing set, it was done—rustic but delicious. I’ll win no prizes for presentation; my cakes would never make it past the Bake Off auditions (unlike Joanne Mandet the daughter of a friend, who’s made it to the finals of Bake Off Canada!). But they’re good enough for family, and that’s all that matters.

Wednesday

Midweek brought a surprise. A Facebook memory popped up first thing—a photo from this very day last year. It showed Pepper in her smart red coat with her poppy tag, standing proudly in the heavy snow that had fallen overnight.

This morning couldn’t have been more different—or so I thought. As we set out in the dark, there was a hint of frost in the valley, the air sharp and cold. When the first light crept over the horizon, I caught my breath. The hills were dusted white. Every higher point in the valley wore a fine layer of snow, soft and shimmering under the pale blue light of dawn.

The paths and stiles were slick and treacherous, each step requiring care, but Pepper was in her element. She bounded through the frosty grass in pure delight, nose to the ground, tail wagging furiously, as if rediscovering the joy of snow for the very first time.

The opposite tor was blanketed in white, its ridges sharp against the morning sky, while Musbury itself had escaped the worst—just a scattering of snow clinging to her slopes, glinting faintly in the rising sun.

Thursday

Thursday was another glorious day. I set out a little earlier than usual, the world still cloaked in darkness as I walked up Park Lane. The faint light reflected off the damp tracks, and a soft warmth was spreading through the eastern sky.

In the field beside me, two deer lifted their heads and bolted, their silhouettes vanishing into the half-light. Pepper, naturally, went into full pursuit mode—at least as far as her lead (and my patience) would allow. She’d never catch them, of course, but that has never stopped her from trying.

By the time we reached my favourite tree, the sun was breaking over Scout Moor—fiery red behind the wind turbines, throwing long shadows across the valley. The snow lingered in sheltered hollows, and the air was cold and sharp, the kind that stings your cheeks and wakes you up better than any coffee.

As we descended towards Musbury Brook, another pair of deer appeared in the lower field. Pepper hadn’t spotted them at first, so I managed a few photos before her excited yipping gave us away, sending them leaping gracefully over the fence and up towards the safety of the higher slopes.

A large flock of fieldfares wheeled overhead as we continued down the valley, their calls echoing faintly in the clear morning air.

The sun climbed higher, brushing the hills with a warm red glow. At the bottom of the path, the spire of St Thomas’s Church stood silhouetted against the pale sky—a quiet, perfect image to close the walk.

It’s been a week of contrasts—mud, snow, sunshine, and everything in between. From Monday’s undignified plunge in the brook to Thursday’s serene sunrise, the valley has shown every face of November. The days grow shorter now, but they’re no less full. There’s something grounding in these simple routines: walking familiar paths, cooking good food, watching the light change over the hills. Each small moment feels like a thread in the slow, steady weave of winter drawing in.