A Dull Woman's Van Life

Garstang Marina — February 2026

There was something of a Famous Five reunion this weekend as we gathered for a long weekend at Bridge House Marina in Garstang.

Garstang lays quiet and unassuming in the Wyre borough of Lancashire, proudly calling itself the world’s first Fairtrade town. It sits gently between Preston and Lancaster, close enough to the coast to feel the pull of salt air, yet rooted firmly in farmland and river valley. The Lancaster Canal runs like a silver thread through its heart — unhurried, level, and peaceful, famously without locks along this stretch. Bridge House Marina, just outside the town centre, feels tucked away from the world: neat rows of narrowboats, soft clanking of halyards, and that particular stillness that only water can bring. It is the sort of place where time slows of its own accord.

We arrived late on Friday evening and, after the requisite “nesting” ritual in the van — cushions plumped, fairy lights glowing, kettle boiled — we indulged in a rather excellent Chinese takeaway. There is something deeply satisfying about eating from cartons in a warm van while the February cold presses quietly at the windows.

Saturday dawned bright and sharp. Pepper, however, had no enthusiasm for an early start, so we allowed the morning to unfold lazily before wandering along the canal. A pair of swans drifted across the still water, their reflections almost too perfect to disturb.

Work continues on the once-sunken boat nearby; it appears to be sitting on a far more even keel now than when I last saw it — a small resurrection story playing out by the towpath.

After the rugby concluded, Mark and Trevor bravely stepped into the cold to fire up the barbecue. There is something admirable about a winter BBQ — slightly stubborn, wholly optimistic. We gathered in our van for dinner, plates balanced, laughter easy, glasses of lovely red wine warming hands and spirits alike. It was one of those evenings that doesn’t need embellishment — just good food, good company, and the comfort of familiarity. Sensibly, we all retired at a reasonable hour.

Sunday felt softer. Pepper and I had a gentle mooch around the marina, noticing the first confident signs of spring. Daffodils and narcissus are pushing through, crocuses open like small cups of colour, and snowdrops bow politely in the borders. February always feels like a threshold month — winter still present, but loosening its grip.

In the afternoon we wandered to The Old Tithe Barn for Sunday lunch, its heavy beams and warm interior offering welcome shelter.

Afterwards, we strolled back along the canal as the light began to fade, spending a quiet evening with books and films while rain drummed softly on the van roof — one of the most comforting sounds I know.

We chose to stay the extra night — a decision that makes Sunday deliciously unhurried but does demand a slightly frantic Monday departure. Leaving under the cover of darkness, headlights cutting through the morning chill, is always a small jolt back to reality.

And yet, as we drove home, I found myself thinking how necessary these weekends are. The slow walks. The shared meals. The gentle rituals of van life. The easy joy of old friends gathering again as though no time has passed. Spring is stirring now — in the hedgerows, in the bulbs, and perhaps in us too. Longer days lie ahead, lighter evenings, more excuses to meet beside water somewhere.

For now, I am content with the memory of swans on still water and laughter in a warm van — simple things, but the best things all the same.