Jackie Lambert

Foreword

“If you'd just bought a normal, boring campervan like every sane person in the world, you wouldn't have had any of these problems. Life would be extremely dull, though.” Gwyn Moses, DipHe, BSc, BSc (Hons), MBA, BA (Hons) & BMF (Best Male Friend!)

Grand Designs

I have an admission to make. Property renovation programmes are my guilty pleasure – and an inspiration.

First and foremost, I’m a Hammer Head.

For years, Homes Under the Hammer was my weekday daytime paramour. ‘Hammer,’ as it’s known to aficionados, features unsuspecting buyers purchasing property at auction. They aspire to find rubies in the rough and profit from the plain, but frequently end up with dry rot, subsidence, and a blown budget.

This happens most often when they ignore Hammer’s golden rules.

ALWAYS view before bidding.

Read the legal pack.

Set a budget and stick to it.

I love the variety of projects they feature: from old sewage works to pieces of industrial wasteland, with every type of residential dwelling in between. But, a highlight for me is the literal soundtrack. The music is truly inspiring. They might pair the ‘Before’ montage of a ramshackle wreck with This Ole House by Shakin’ Stevens. Dodgy circuitry? Cue Eddy Grant’s Electric Avenue. My all-time favourite was the outstanding appropriation of Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell for a many-bedroomed residence whose only toilet was outside. I’m certain that in the midnight hour, the young lady who cried for more, more, more was not requesting additional indoor privies.

From the beginning, George Clarke’s Amazing Spaces has been grist to the mill of my tiny home aspirations. Here, subjects create bonkers but bijou living quarters from sheds, tree houses, or an odd assortment of base vehicles such as a derelict boat, a retired London bus, or a decommissioned Sea King helicopter strapped to a flatbed truck.

But if it’s wild ambition meeting unfettered eccentricity you’re after, there’s always the granddaddy of them all, Grand Designs.

Since 1999, architect Kevin McCloud, MBE, clad in a blazer with his trademark woolly scarf rippling behind in a breeze of creativity, follows the visionaries of this world. The ones who drive humanity forward with their crazy thinking, experimental ideas, and unwavering optimism. People prepared to sacrifice their sanity – along with their relationships and their grandchildren’s inheritance – on the altar of their bold, unconventional, and sometimes hopelessly insane, home-building dreams.

Who can forget the “heroic” Eco Arch house, whose domed roof was a confection of ceramic tiles and plaster of Paris last seen in 14th century Spain? It partially collapsed when one of the crew leaned on it. Or the monumental challenge of Yorkshire’s Hellifield Peel Tower? A stately seven-bedroom family castle raised from an 800-year-old pile of Grade-1-listed rubble, despite the central wall disintegrating and the costs exploding. Or the builds based on the shape of an ammonite fossil or a hamster wheel?

At key milestones, McCloud pops in to survey the subject’s progress, proffer wise counsel, and gently allude to flaws in design and logic. Then, he presents his signature soliloquy to camera like a wandering, windblown poet.

“This collapsing beam is no mere structural support. It is the spine of Rufus’ aspirations. The backbone of Camilla’s dream.”

When he returns to find the unfortunate couple/kids/newborns spending another unexpected winter in a caravan surrounded by freezing mud and construction chaos, McCloud may discuss the pros and cons of their approach to Project Management.

Regardless of my decades long televisual apprenticeship, I never understood the purpose of Project Management.

Even as an absolute novice, who had disregarded Hammer’s principal golden rule and bought unseen.

If you have discussed your plans with a knowledgeable contractor who is working for you, what’s the point of a Project Manager? Won't the builder simply handle it for you?

And if you’re a reasonably intelligent individual, capable of navigating the treacherous waters of budget overruns and construction calamities, can’t you just oversee a project yourself?

Even in absentia, because coronavirus travel restrictions mean you can’t return to the UK to supervise your project in person?

After all, email and international mobile telecommunications have featured on the communication landscape for decades.

I could almost see McCloud’s quizzical eyebrows arch higher than the dome of the 14th century Spanish villa.

With our own Grand Design, my husband Mark and I were about to discover the merits of hands-on project management.

The hard way.

Friday 13th

On Friday 13th December 2019, our lives changed forever.

For the previous three years, Mark and I had been permanent nomads, chasing sunshine, snowflakes, and adventure.

In 2016, we gave up work, rented out our apartment, and sold most of our possessions to travel full time in Europe with our four dogs, Cavapoos (Cavalier/Poodle cross) Kai, Rosie, Ruby, and Lani.

During the summer, we sated our wanderlust in Caravan Kismet, an RV trailer towed by Big Blue, our trusty panel van and toy box.

In winter, we rented an apartment in the snow to indulge our passion for hurtling down hills with our feet strapped on to a pair of planks.

Holed up in Monte Rosa, our favourite ski resort in the Italian Alps, we heard the result of Britain’s most crucial general election in a generation. As we savoured clear Alpine air and planned our next descent, the news of Prime Minister Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s electoral triumph reached us.

With his bumbling manner and mop of yellow hair, The Johnson won the hearts of the nation with promises as bold and disingenuous as his personality. He fought his campaign principally on one topic. Brexit. Britain’s exit from the European Union (EU).

He pledged to ‘Get Brexit Done’ and claimed he had an ‘Oven Ready Deal’. Even his most stalwart supporters said it could take 50 years to sort out Brexit, but they said it very quietly, and mostly after the election. It mattered not to them that youngsters could be collecting their pensions before they saw any Brexit benefits.

Johnson threatened Britain with an inundation of 70 million Turks, which was odd, with him being descended from a Turkish asylum seeker. Then, on the side of his Brexit bus, he promised £350 million pounds a week for the NHS (Britain’s National Health Service). I chuckled when I saw it, thinking no one will believe that.

But the electorate wanted to believe it.

On Friday 13th, they returned The Johnson to Downing Street with a landslide 80-seat majority.

The Brexit bombshell had detonated.

Brexit became inevitable.

***

The Johnson had already expelled all the moderate voices from his government. With fervent Brexiteers in charge – and immigration central to his Vote Leave campaign – it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Johnson’s version of Brexit undoubtedly signalled an end to Freedom of Movement (FOM).

FOM granted the extraordinary privilege of indefinite visa-free travel, study, work, or residence in any country within the Schengen Zone.

For British citizens, ending FOM would limit European escapades to a mere 90 days in each 180-day window throughout the entire Schengen area. Then, Schengen comprised 26 countries and counting, with Croatia, Romania, and Bulgaria committed to join.

It was the death knell for many a retirement plan, including ours. Brexit meant goodbye to the year-long jaunt around Europe in our RV. Farewell to ski seasons in the Alps, and adios to the prospect of sunny winters in Spain.

The implications caused me to utter a life-changing sentence to my beloved.

“I’ve had enough of Britain – let’s go to Mongolia.”

***

I've always longed to visit Mongolia.

Ever since I read about Genghis Khan and saw the film Mongol, I aspired to become a Mongolian horse archer, galloping across the steppes with the wind in my hair and an eagle on my wrist. Home for me would be a felt ger.

As Adventure Caravanners, Mark and I had hitched up, towed, and split our infinitives to ‘Boldly Go Where No Van Has Gone Before’.

Although Big Blue and Caravan Kismet had given us problem-free conduct over the Carpathian Mountains, along the occasional footpath, and through two Romanian cornfields, Mongolia could be a step too far.

Brief research soon revealed that towing a trailer presents the greatest potential to cause issues when travelling overland on rough terrain. Mongolia is a country three times the size of France, with only three paved roads.

To negotiate the Pamir Highway and the Gobi Desert, we needed something more substantial. Casually, we started scanning the internet for a 4-wheel drive expedition vehicle.

On 13th December, following The Johnson’s election victory, I issued my Christmas message to the nation.

“The lies to the right, 364.

“The lies have it.

“Let’s hope today’s decision will make you healthy, wealthy and wise – we’re off to Mongolia.”

13th December to 13th January

When you’re a complete novice, how do you specify and source an expedition truck?

The first step is to decide what you want.

Then do some research.

Lots of research!

The first Amazon delivery to our apartment in Monte Rosa was The Overlanders’ Handbook by Chris Scott. This helped us compile a list of our requirements.

Obviously, four-wheel drive was essential.

We needed something large enough to live in full time, which could house all our sports gear, and be self-sufficient off-grid for several weeks. We established ten tonnes was the sweet spot for an overlander. Anything heavier had limitations: it might struggle to access some areas, cross certain bridges, and risked getting bogged down in soft ground.

When we started our adventures, conventional motorhomes lacked the space to transport all our windsurfers, SUPs (Stand Up Paddleboards), bikes, dog trailers, and other paraphernalia. We opted for the van/caravan combo because Big Blue, a Hyundai iLoad panel van, could accommodate all our toys, and was handy for sightseeing, shopping and getting to windsurfing beaches down narrow lanes.

With no tow vehicle, we determined we’d need room for a quad bike (ATV – All-Terrain Vehicle) as a runaround, and as emergency transport in case we got stuck somewhere remote.

Mechanically, our aim was something simple, reliable, and easy to repair, with good availability of spares worldwide.

Since we intended to visit places like the Pamir Highway, along the border of Afghanistan, so we didn’t want to look too threatening militarily.

Our budget was flexible within reason, but not unlimited. To maintain our state of retirement, we have to watch our pennies.

Timescale – well, that was as soon as possible. Once Mark and I decide to do something, we like to get it done!

We had already established that Caravan Kismet wouldn’t make Mongolia. Big Blue had served us well, but she had worked hard, towing Kismet across Europe. We didn’t think she had another long trip in her. Our only option was to buy a more suitable vehicle to take us on our next adventure.

***

Once you know what you want, you must work out how to get it.

The quickest way was to buy a truck that was already converted. Hopefully, by someone with rather more knowledge about building an overlander than us…

We had toured in Caravan Kismet full time for three years, so we had a clear idea of the layout and facilities we wanted, such as a shower, loo, and kitchen set up. I also knew I wanted a light and spacious interior.

We searched the internet. Ready-to-go options seemed relatively expensive, although when you don’t fully understand the specifications of the base vehicle or the onboard equipment, it’s hard to make fair comparisons. At this early stage, solar power systems were tantamount to witchcraft for me.

We liked an ex-army ambulance and a German army fire engine. On the plus side, we felt such vehicles might look sufficiently neutral to avoid being shot at. Sadly, none had anything approaching the configuration we wanted, and inside, they all seemed dark and cramped.

Mark is a genius at configuring small areas to maximise space. He could visualise how to improve the layouts, but every off-the-shelf vehicle would need expensive remodelling to meet our requirements.

Plus, our inexperience raised another important question. Did their creators know any more about vehicle conversions than us? We had no desire to land ourselves with someone else's problem.

The second option was to build our own.

In consultation with our second Amazon delivery, Haynes’ Build Your Own Overland Camper Manual, it looked less complicated than putting together flat-pack furniture. (Some converters do use flat-pack furniture for their interiors!) And we could always get help. We weren’t sure where from, but as we’re fond of saying, “There’s always a solution!”

Doing it ourselves had some advantages.

We would have the freedom to choose whatever layout we liked and specify high-quality fittings, such as solar panels. This would ensure we had the extended off-grid capability we needed. Plus, when things inevitably go wrong at the most inopportune moment, such as in the middle of the Gobi Desert, we’d have a fighting chance of knowing how to fix an outfit we’d built ourselves.

Since we couldn’t find anything ready-made, we decided on the self-build route.

To avoid the hassle, time, and expense of mounting a cargo box ourselves, we also settled on a truck with one already fitted and ready to convert. Installing a box is not the easiest DIY (Do It Yourself) project, because there are complex technical aspects to consider. Of course, suppliers such as Zeppelin and Bespoke Bodies will design and fit one to the rig of your choice, but DIY or bespoke, either route would add months to the timescale.

We scanned military dealers and auctions all over Europe, but found very few closed-box trucks available for sale. Those with cargo boxes were 13 to 15 ft (approximately 4 to 4.5 m) long, which was smaller than our ideal. Certainly too small to fit an ATV inside.

That meant our only option to carry an ATV was on a trailer, which led straight back to the main issue: towing a trailer is the most likely source of problems on rough terrain.

In addition, we both felt an expensive ATV in plain sight was akin to having a sign stating, ‘Interior packed with valuables! Please rob, then pinch me to escape!’

When a trailer capable of handling off-road terrain with a high-spec quad on board came with a hefty price tag of £8,000, we buried the trailer idea for good.

For a few weeks, we’d kept coming back to ogle a batch of magnificent bull-nosed trucks for sale from a dealer in Rotterdam. They were 6x4-wheel drive Volvo N10s. Built in 1990, the Belgian Army had just decommissioned them after 30 years’ service.

They looked solid and reliable – they were Volvos, after all. Their age pre-dated complicated automobile electronics, which placed them firmly in the ‘clang it with a spanner’ school of vehicle maintenance. That was perfect for an expedition rig. Any mechanic should be able to fix a purely mechanical lorry.

Our Dutch friend Casper was enthusiastic when we showed him the N10s.

“My cousin drove similar trucks in Afghanistan. He said you can drive on the moon with this kind of truck!”

(I know – if the moon had enough atmosphere to support internal combustion, but you take my point!)

We checked the specification.

On paper, the Volvo N10 appeared to be a formidable expedition vehicle.

She could climb a sixty-degree slope, cross a thirty-degree incline, and forge through rivers a metre-and-a-half deep. Casper sent us a video showing a Volvo N10 doing all those things, with the inexplicable addition of dancing girls in bikinis with anacondas draped around their necks.

Even without the snakes and dancing girls, we fell ever so slightly in love.

***

For the next few weeks, over mid-ski coffee in the mountain huts and crunching around in the snow under the ski lifts with our four pups, we chewed over the merits and drawbacks of such a large truck.

“She’s too heavy,” one would say. “24.5 tonnes gross! That’s way over the 10-tonne sweet spot for an overland truck.”

“But we won’t be running her at full capacity,” the other would counter. “Unladen, her tare weight is about 10 tonnes. That means we’ve got 14.5 tonnes of payload – as well as a 70-tonne train weight. We could tow a tank!”

“We’re not getting a tank…”

“No, but we’d have no problem carrying everything we need. Realistically, converted and with enough water and fuel to be self-sufficient for at least a month, she’d only be a few tonnes over. It might mean we can’t cross some bridges or reach certain places, but I’m sure mostly it will be fine. We plan to travel on rough roads, not go all-terrain rock hopping like some overlanders.”

“But she’s still too big. 9.6 m long and 3.85 m high.” (32 ft and nearly 13 ft). “She’s a beast!”

“She’s actually four feet shorter than Big Blue and Caravan Kismet, and only a smidge wider – 2.5 m compared to 2.35m (8’2” and 7’7”). So, she could carry a quad inside.”

Then Mark added, “I’m 6’ 6” (2 m) tall. I need the headroom! But she’s well within the 4 m legal height limit for trucks in Europe.”

I knew there was a reason I’d married a transport manager. But we still had doubts.

We discussed spares. I’d discovered that Volvo spares are less widely available worldwide than those for other makes, although spares and Volvo N10’s were plentiful in some countries, such as Iran.

"But when we travel," Mark said, "We're in no rush to be anywhere." So, if we have to stop and wait for parts, we’ll just enjoy where we are. We can replace all the perishables, like the rubber hoses, and carry lots of spares for obvious things, like belts and filters.”

"I suppose it's similar to finding the perfect dog," I said. “The perfect expedition truck doesn't exist. It all depends on your plans and your lifestyle!”

At €26,000, her price appealed. Replacing Big Blue would cost more than that.

Of course, there was the thorny issue of fuel consumption, but unlike the public at large, who would have a lot to say about this down the line, Mark excels at lateral thinking.

“Her purchase price is an absolute steal – she costs less than a new van. We can offset her poor fuel economy against that. Not fitting a box or buying a trailer saves us thousands. Plus, we won’t drive her around like a car. We’ll be moving slowly from place to place, then staying for a while. On the sort of mileage we do, it will be five years before she costs us any more than running a smaller truck.

The biggest obstacle of all, though, was that we were buying her blind.

Could we really commit tens of thousands of pounds to purchase a truck we’d never seen?

“I wouldn’t know what I was looking at anyway!” Mark admitted. “Brendan, at the dealer’s, promised she’d come with a mechanical check. If problems arise, we will have some comeback with the dealer. But she’s ex-army. She must be mechanically simple, over-engineered, and well maintained. It’s a gamble, but she has a box fitted, so we won’t need to pay for that – and the comparable trucks we’ve looked at cost several thousand pounds more.”

“So, we’re gambling that she won’t need seven grand’s worth of work,” I said. “If she doesn’t, we’re in the money. If she does, we won’t have lost. If she turns into a financial black hole, well. We’ll just have to take it on the chin…”

It was important to love her.

I’d already named her The Beast.

If she was going to be our permanent home, guardian, and accomplice on scary adventures, it needed to be love.

Mark and I met on the 9th of January. As our anniversary approached, I announced on social media,

“I might get a truck as a 21st anniversary present!”

Even so, we went round and round in circles.

However we tried to convince ourselves, we concluded she was not right for us.

Ultimately, even Mark admitted, “She’s way too big and way too heavy.”

We made our final decision.

The following day, we put down a deposit.