We didn’t find the river stop because we knew it was there.
We found it because the light was starting to go and neither of us wanted to spend another hour looking for somewhere better.
After leaving the campsite twenty minutes after we arrived, we drove with no real plan. Mary had her phone open and I was following the road. Every few minutes one of us suggested somewhere. Then we would reach the turning, look at it and carry on.
The first place was full.
The second had a height barrier.
At the third I slowed down while Mary read a sign neither of us completely understood.
“I think it says no overnight parking,” she said.
“You think?”
“It might say no parking on Tuesdays.”
“What day is it?”
She looked at me.
We carried on.
By then we were tired enough to start making poor decisions. I knew it. Mary knew it. Neither of us said anything because saying it would have meant admitting that leaving the campsite might have been a mistake.
It still didn’t feel like one.
The road followed the river for a while before we saw the other campervans below us. There were only four or five, parked on a rough strip of ground with plenty of space between them. No sign at the entrance. No reception. Nothing that looked like it needed booking.
I turned off before we had time to debate it.
The track down was rougher than it had looked from the road. Cupboard doors rattled. Something rolled across the floor behind us.
“That’ll be the oranges,” Mary said.
“I secured those.”
A second orange rolled past my foot.
At the bottom we found a level patch facing the water. I switched off the engine and waited.
Nobody came over.
No one waved us away. A man sitting outside the next van glanced across, raised one hand and went back to his book.
Mary opened the side door.
“This’ll do.”
It was the nicest thing she had said for the past hour.
We didn’t set much up. Two chairs. The small table. Tea first and food later. The river moved slowly enough that the surface held the evening light rather than breaking it apart. Every few minutes a bird skimmed low across the water and disappeared into the trees on the other bank.
The overnight stop had no facilities. Under normal circumstances I would’ve found something to worry about. Water level. Battery percentage. Whether we were parked legally. Whether the ground would become soft overnight.
I checked the levelling display instead.
“We’re slightly down on the left.”
Mary was already sitting outside.
“Can you feel it?”
“No.”
“Then leave it.”
I left it.
It reminded me of our first night parked on the outskirts of Seville. That hadn’t been an impressive place either. It had simply arrived at the point when we needed to stop.
This was better.
There was no traffic beyond the occasional car on the road above us. One of the other vans had a small radio playing inside. We couldn’t make out the words. Just a tune appearing and disappearing whenever the breeze shifted.
Dinner came from whatever was easiest to reach. Bread. Cheese. The last of something Mary had put in a container and labelled with a date that neither of us trusted.
“You said this was for tomorrow,” I told her.
“It is tomorrow somewhere.”
“That’s not how time zones work.”
“It is when you’re hungry.”
We ate it.
As the sun dropped, the river changed from silver to a dull orange. Then the colour went completely and we were left looking at the shape of the opposite bank.
Mary brought the mugs back inside. I folded the chairs and checked the doors. The oranges went into a cupboard with a proper catch this time.
We slept with one window open.
In the morning the other vans were still there. Mist sat just above the water and the man next door was making coffee outside in a coat. He lifted his mug when he saw me.
I lifted mine back.
Mary came out a few minutes later and stood by the door without saying anything. We had nowhere booked and no particular reason to leave early.
So we didn’t.
I put the chairs out again.
