A Dull Woman's Van Life

November 2025

We spent the weekend in the beautiful market town of Garstang, a historic gem nestled between Preston and Lancaster on the edge of the River Wyre. It’s the kind of place where time seems to slow down: cobbled lanes, friendly locals, and mile upon mile of peaceful canal paths. We were pitched up at the marina campsite, tucked beside the water with views of moored narrowboats and winter trees.

We arrived late on Friday night, braced for the miserable, wet weekend the forecast had promised. Instead, we woke to a crisp, frosty morning — the sort that glitters on every surface. Mist drifted slowly through the trees by the marina, lifting in soft curls from the canal. After a frantic week, it felt like stepping into another world.

Saturday was deliberately lazy. A gentle morning stroll along the canal, a quiet lunch in the van, and then a wander into Garstang itself to sample a few of its fine hostelries and decide which would be graced with our custom for Sunday lunch. We returned to the van victorious, clutching an excellent Chinese takeaway, and settled in for a film and an early night. Bliss.

Sunday dawned just as clear — no sign at all of the promised rain. Pepper and I took our usual morning wander along the canal, where the water lapped softly against a colourful line of barges and narrowboats. A family of swans made the rounds begging for breakfast, gliding from boat to boat with the confidence of creatures who know they’ll be indulged. I’m fairly sure they’d tap on the windows if they had knuckles.

The meadows and trees were alive with fieldfares rummaging for food.

A great spotted woodpecker flitted among the branches — the photograph is dreadful, but if you squint you can just make out a red flash and the fan of a black-and-white tail.

A rabbit watched us from across the water, safe from Pepper’s enthusiastic squeaking by the simple fact that she is absolutely not a swimmer.

Blue tits busied themselves in the trees above, chirping companionably as we passed.

We also came across a forlorn-looking narrowboat in dire straits, half-tilted and clearly awaiting rescue. A hopeful sign hung on it — whether meant to be ironic or left behind by the salvage crew, I couldn’t quite tell.

Later that afternoon we wandered down to The Old Tithe Barn for the much-anticipated Sunday lunch. Mark went traditional with a full roast; I chose ham, egg and chips — a proper northern tea — washed down with a pint of the black stuff (Guinness for the uninitiated).

We waddled back to the van and rounded off the weekend with another cosy film night, content in that gentle, peaceful way that only winter weekends can bring. Then came the early dash home on Monday morning, ready to face the working week once more.

There’s something about winter weekends by the water that soothes the spirit. The cold sharpens the colours, the frost slows the world to a quieter pace, and even the smallest moments — a swan begging its way down the canal, mist drifting over the trees, Pepper squeaking at rabbits she’ll never reach — take on a kind of quiet magic. Sometimes the best tonic isn’t adventure at all, but stillness: long walks, good food, and the comfort of simply being together in a beautiful place. Garstang gave us exactly that — a reminder that even in the coldest months, there’s warmth to be found in slowing down.