Coming quite soon.
In the early summer of 2010 peculiar, supernatural things started to happen.
We had found a lucrative side-line to help boost our coffers. Living in a small town, near Lille, in Northern France we noticed that French caravans were significantly more expensive and generally of a lesser quality than the caravans available in the UK. We realised that we could purchase, import and triple our investment with very little effort.
Our first caravan sat on the front drive of the house in Orchies. Like excited stink bugs, we decided to take a vacation in the garden! We carried pots, pans, bedlinen and sundries from the house to the van . As the light started to fade, Rick busied himself grilling bacon for our suppertime sandwiches. This was Rusty, our ginger tomcat’s favourite food. Soon enough he popped his orange noggin into the open doorway. Visibly disturbed, his fur bristling, he defiantly refused to enter – despite a tempting, crispy morsel offered encouragingly.
The caravan was pretty standard. A lounge at one end with a seating area that could be configured to a double bed. A sliding door at the opposite end, with a permanent fixed bed. Kitchen, weeny loo and pathetic excuse for a shower room wedged between. We were tucked up cosily in bed, behind the closed door. Chuntering aimlessly, Rick suddenly asked me to be quiet. ‘Ssssh, did you hear that?’ He questioned. ‘Hear what?’ I replied puzzled. ‘A voice.’ He said, springing up and deftly whooshing the door to one side.