A Dull Woman's Van Life

8th February, 2026

The weather reports all promised snow on Thursday night. The local press confidently forecast fifteen centimetres, my phone pinged with yellow weather warnings, and—having been caught out before—I took heed. I moved the car to the safety of the main road. The combination of a rear-wheel-drive BMW (not my choice, the company’s) and the narrow lane up to the house, which in winter quickly turns into a slalom, felt like tempting fate. I was taking no chances.

We woke to rain. Lots of it.

As we prepared to leave the house, I caught sight of something else that did little to improve my already sour mood: a ruined pan of Korean pot roast. I should rewind a little here. Mark has been away working since Tuesday, returning on Friday, and I had promised Korean pot roast—a new recipe of slowly braised shin of beef in soy, gochujang and beef stock. I had lovingly prepared it on Thursday night, the recipe promising that making it the day before would allow the flavours to deepen and settle.

While relaxing in front of the fire that evening, I was startled by a loud crack from the kitchen. Investigating revealed that the glass lid of my chosen pan had shattered in the oven, showering my beautiful beef with shards of glass. It was too hot to deal with, so I left it there and retired to bed in a sulk. In the morning it was still there, a silent accusation, and when combined with the conspicuous absence of snow, it did nothing to lift the gloom.

Pepper and I headed out into the foul weather, trudging miserably along the valley bottom—the day was clearly not suited to a hill climb. We saw nothing but sheep. Even the local wildlife had decided to hide from the rain and decline any appearances.

Back home, between work calls, I returned to the farm shop and made identical purchases to the day before. By lunchtime, Korean pot roast mark two was underway—this time in a far more robust pan.

Korean pot roast mark two, thankfully, was a triumph. We ate it with plain boiled rice and a fresh slaw of red cabbage, kohlrabi, garlic and coriander, washed down with an unfiltered Stella. Comfort restored, balance returned.

Saturday began with so much promise. Pepper and I headed out early into the fresh air—still without the promised snow—and wandered up through Great House Farm, stopping to pass the time of day with a dry-stone waller at work. From there we followed the path down from Alden Ratchers to Alden Brook and on towards Sunnybank. A pair of buzzards wheeled and danced overhead, and a beautifully coloured pheasant perched on a bramble, surveying the valley below like it owned the place.

As we headed down the field towards Musbury Brook, disaster struck. I usually avoid the stone steps in winter; they’re moss-covered and notoriously treacherous. But Pepper, thrilled by the promise of the tree line, launched herself forward and—without thinking—I followed. On step three, I slipped and landed awkwardly on my backside halfway down. After a few minutes’ pause, it became clear this was more than just a minor embarrassment, and I rang Mark for an emergency lift home. I staggered back up to the road and waited for my rescuer.

Ibuprofen, a hot shower, and a little enforced rest worked wonders. The bruises, however, are spectacular.

With longer walks off the menu, I took the big lens and drove up to Cough Head visitor centre, settling into the bird hide for a gentle hour of watching. Siskins and chaffinches flitted busily through the feeders, and I was quietly overjoyed by a brief visit from a great spotted woodpecker—a small, perfect reward for slowing down.

By Sunday I was back up and about, moving a little gingerly but with no real harm done. The evening was spent by the fire, easing into stillness and preparing for the week ahead. The weekend closed not with snow or drama, but with warmth, birdsong, and the quiet satisfaction of having landed softly, despite everything.

By Sunday evening, the house had settled into its familiar hush. The fire crackled, Pepper slept in a loose, boneless heap, and the bruises—still vivid—served as a gentle reminder to move a little more carefully, to listen when the body asks for stillness. The snow never came, but perhaps it wasn’t needed. The weekend offered other gifts instead: good food redeemed, birds at close quarters, and the quiet reassurance that even when plans slip, there is comfort to be found in slowing down, paying attention, and ending the week warmed from the inside out.