The Cruise of the Land-Yacht «Wanderer»: or, Thirteen Hundred Miles in my Caravan

Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Cycle as Tender to the Caravan

 
“When the spring stirs my blood
    With the instincts of travel,
    I can get enough gravel
On the old Marlborough road.”
Thoreau.
 

I begin to think, reader, that the plan of putting headlines or verses to chapters, although a very ancient, time-honoured custom, is not such a very excellent one after all.

The verses are written subsequently, of course, after you have finished the chapter, and the difficulty is to get them to fit; you may have some glimmering notion that, once upon a time, some poet or other did say something that would be apropos, but who was it? You get off your easy-chair and yawn and stretch yourself, then lazily make your way to the bookshelf and commence the search among your favourite poets. It is for all the world like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, and when you do find it, it isn’t half so bright as you thought it would be, only down you jot it in a semi-reckless kind of a way, feeling all the while as if you were a humbug, or committing some sort of a deadly sin.

If this good poet Thoreau had said, —

 
“When the spring stirs my blood
    With the instincts of travel,
I can get enough exercise
    On my Marlborough tricycle.”
 

– Although not metre, it would have been to the point. But the poet did not, so there we are. Nevertheless, the Marlborough is the cycle I have bestridden during my tour this summer, and a sweet wee thing it is. In my caravan tour of 1885 it was the Ranelagh Club I had as tender to the Wanderer, also a good one.

But really, without a cycle, one would sometimes feel lost in caravan travelling. The Wanderer is so large that she cannot turn on narrow roads, so that on approaching a village, where I wish to stay all night, I find it judicious to stop her about a quarter of a mile out and tool on, mounted on the Marlborough, to find out convenient quarters. Then a signal brings the Wanderer on.

Another advantage of having a tender is this. In narrow lanes your valet rides on ahead, and if there really be no room for a trap to pass us, he warns any carriage that may chance to be coming our way.

Take, for example, that ugly climb we had when passing through Slochmuichk, in the Grampians (see illustration). My valet was on ahead, round the corner and on the outlook for coming vehicles, and so had anyone hove in sight a probable accident would have been avoided.

Again, when passing through a town where board schools with their busy bees of boys are numerous, my valet, on the Marlborough tender, comes riding up behind, and accordingly the bees do not have a chance of sticking on to the carriage.

Tramps will, at times, get up and try the drawers behind, but whenever I see a suspicious gang of these worthless loafers, a signal brings the tender flying back, and thus robbery is prevented.

I had the utmost satisfaction once this year in punishing some country louts. Butler, my valet, was innocently riding on about a hundred yards ahead, and no sooner had he passed than the three blackguards commenced stone-throwing. They had no idea then the cycle belonged to the caravan. They had soon after though. I slid quietly off the coupé, whip in hand, and for several seconds I enjoyed the most health-giving exercise. Straight across the face and round the ears I hit as hard as I knew how to. One escaped Scot-free, but two tumbled in the ditch and howled aloud for mercy, which I generously granted – after I got tired. The beauty of the attack was in its suddenness, and those roughs will remember it to their dying day.

But the main pleasure in possessing a cycle lies in the opportunities you have of seeing lovely bits of scenery, and quaint queer old villages, and quaint queer old people, quite out of the beaten track of your grand tour. And it is a pleasure to have a long quiet ride through woods and flowery lanes, of a summer’s evening, after having been in the caravan all day long.

Just let me pick one extract from a book I wrote last year, describing cycling in connection with my grand tour.

(“Rota Vitae, The Cyclist’s Guide to Health and Rational Enjoyment.” Published by Messrs Iliffe and Sturney, 98 Fleet Street, London.)

The little work is really a bombshell, as ancient divines used to call their tracts, aimed at the senseless making of records by cyclists who go flying from one end of the kingdom to the other, and come back as wise as they went, and infinitely more tired.

Haddington and round it

Everywhere you go around Haddington, you will be charmed with the character and beauty of the scenery, and its great variety.

Inland, are there not grand old hills and wild woodlands, lonely straths and glens, and splendid sheets of water? Is there not, too, the finest tree scenery that exists anywhere in Scotland? Yes! and the very wild flowers and hedgerows themselves would repay one for all the toil incurred in rattling over somewhat stony roads, and climbing lofty braelands. Then, towards the east, you come in sight of the sea itself – the ever-beautiful, ever-changing sea. Go farther east still, go to the coast itself, and you will find yourself among such rock scenery as can hardly be beaten, expect by that in Skye or the Orkneys. When tired of wandering on the shore, and, if a naturalist, studying and admiring the thousand-and-one strange objects around you, why, you may go and hobnob with some of the fisher folks – male or female, take your choice – they will amuse, ay, and mayhap instruct you, while some of the oldest of them will tell you tales of the old smuggling days, and life in the caves, that will heat anything you ever read in books.

If you should stay at Cockburnspath all night you will not forget to visit the seashore and the caves. Those caves have a history, too; they were connected with the troublesome times of “auld lang syne,” and later still, they came in remarkably handy for bold smugglers, who, before the days of smart revenue cutters, made use of them as temporary storehouses when running a cargo on shore.

How lovely the sea looks on a summer’s day from the hills around here! How enchanting the woods! How wild! How quiet! You will be inclined to live and linger among scenery such as this, book in hand, perhaps, on a bank of wild thyme and bluebells, and if you do notice some blue-coated bicyclist, with red perspiring face and dusty tout ensemble, speeding past on his way to John-o’-Groat’s, how you will pity him! Farther west is the romantic Dunglass Dene, which you will visit without fail. Says Scott:

 
“The cliffs here rear their haughty head
High o’er the river’s darksome bed;
Here trees to every crevice clung,
And o’er the dell their branches hung:
And there, all splintered and uneven,
The shivered rocks ascend to heaven;
Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast,
And wreathed their garland round their crest;
Or from the spires bade loosely flare
Its tendrils in the summer air.”
 

The most romantic parts of Scotland which may be visited by the caravannist, with his tricycle as tender, are: —

I. The counties of Barns, Hogg, and Scott (comprising all the space betwixt a line drawn from Edinburgh to Glasgow and the Tweed).

II. The Grampian Wilds.

III. The Perthshire Highlands.

IV. The Valley of the Dee.

V. The Valley of the Don.

VI. The sea coast from Edinburgh to Fraserburgh, and west as far as Inverness itself.

Coming south now to England, I must permit the tourist himself to choose his own headquarters. I shall merely mention the most healthy and interesting districts.

I. The Lake Country.

II. The Yorkshire District (most bracing and interesting).

III. The Peak District of Derbyshire.

IV. The Midland District.

V. The East Coasts.

VI. North Wales (centre, probably Bala).

VII. South Wales.

VIII. South Devon.

IX. South Cornwall.

X. Jersey (Saint Heliers).

I should also mention both Orkney and Shetland, these islands are healthy and bracing.

In both the last-named districts riding will be found practical, but boating excursions will rival the tricycle. Fishing and shooting, and walking among the moorlands and hills, combine to render a holiday in either the Orkneys or Shetland Islands a most enjoyable one.

Both at Kirkwall and Lerwick fairly good hotels are to be found, and respectable lodgings, while living is as cheap as anyone could desire.

NB – An ordinary-sized caravan can be taken by sea, but take my advice, never put it on board a train.

Chapter Thirty.
Hints to Would-be Caravannists

 
“We live to learn ilka day,
    The warld wide’s the best o’ skools,
Experience too, so auld folks say,
    Is just the jade for teachin’ fools.”
 

Nemo.

I

First catch your hare. That is, get your caravan.

“Oh!” I think I hear some one say, “I shall hire one.” Take Punch’s advice to people about to marry – “don’t.”

And the same advice holds good as regards secondhand caravans.

Mind, I do not say that you may not be able to meet with a good and clean one, but, woe is me, there is a chance of guests, in old caravans of the gipsy class, that you would not care to be shipmates with.

Besides, the woodwork may be bad, or “going,” and there may be flaws in the springs, the wheels. The roof may leak, and a hundred and fifty other disagreeables be found out after you fairly start on the road.

I would as soon buy an old feather-bed in the east end of London as an old caravan.

Get your car then from a really good maker, one who could not afford to put a bad article out of hand.

I have neither object nor desire to advertise the Bristol Waggon Company, but it is due to them to say that having paid a fair price, I got from them a splendid article. But of course there may be other makers as good or better. I do not know.

II. Style of Build

You may copy the Wanderer if so minded. I do not think that I myself, after two years on the road, could improve on her, except that the shutters are difficult to draw on and off, and ought to run upon castors.

However, few caravannists might care to have so long and large a chariot as mine; one about twelve feet long would serve every purpose, and be easily moved with one good horse. It would also be more easily drawn into meadows at night.

A caravan, both exteriorly and interiorly, is capable of an infinite amount of ornamentation. But I do not think a gentleman gipsy’s carriage ought to, in any way, resemble that of a travelling showman, although it certainly should not be like a Salvationist’s “barrow.”

The entrance door may be at the side, or behind, as in the Wanderer.

The windows should be large and neat, and prettily curtained or upholstered. A caravannist is constantly being gazed at, and people will assuredly judge of your interior fittings by the taste and appearance displayed outside.

The Wanderer, with my books and furniture (all light) on board, weighs well-nigh two tons. Even for a pair of good-hearted horses, such as I possess, this is rather much, so that I should advise that a single horse caravan be not much over fifteen hundredweight.

The Wanderer is double-walled, being built of well-seasoned beautiful mahogany, and lined with maple, having an interspace of about one inch and a half. But double walls are really not necessary, and only add to the expense.

The body of the carriage might be made of Willesden waterproof paper, fastened to a framework of light strong wood. This remarkable paper keeps its shape in all weathers, and can be charmingly painted and gilded.

For a very light summer caravan the upper works might be painted Willesden canvas. Such a carriage, however, would hardly withstand the cold of winter.

The roof of the Wanderer is painted white. I am often asked, Is it not very hot in summer? But the answer is “No, because with the doors open there is always a delightful breeze.” Then, wood being a conductor, and there being so much ventilation, as soon as the sun goes down the caravan becomes as cool as can be desired.

Upholstering and Furnishing

A deal of taste can be shown in this. Everything most be of smallest possible dimensions.

A few favourite books should be taken, while magazines, etc, can be bought in towns and villages as you pass through. I have a fairy edition of the poets, my little ebony bookcase is a fairy one, and a good many other articles as well are of fairy dimensions also. Mirrors are tolerably heavy, but let in here and there in the panels, etc, they have a very nice effect, and make the caravan seem double the size.

Flower vases of different shapes and sizes may be almost everywhere. Flowers we can always get, and if the same kind hospitality be extended to every gentleman or lady gipsy that was lavished on me, his or her caravan will always be florally gay.

The coupé is easily convertible into a delightful lounge. I have a bag close at hand on the splashboard, where I keep the road-book or guide, the map of the county through which I am passing, and my pens, ink, pencils, and note-books. There is also on the coupé a brass-gilt little rack for holding my book or newspaper, as well as a minimum thermometer.

If a shower faces the caravan and is blown in under the verandah, or if the dust is troublesome, it is easy to retire into the saloon for a short time, and shut the glass door.

Sketching from the Coupé

If you are at all handy with the pencil and…

This page missing.

This page missing.

– My vases, or blind or curtain one inch awry. Be gentle and firm with your valet, and he will soon come to see things as you do, and act in accordance with all your wishes.

The cooking-stove should be black-leaded, the tin things should shine like burnished silver, and every kitchen utensil be as bright and clean as a new sovereign.

What though your table be small, the viands plain? they are well put on, your delft is polished, and that flower in the vase, and those coloured glasses, look well on a spotless cloth.

The Cooking-Range

Does it smell at all? I have often been asked that question. The reply is “No, not at all,” and in October I light the range of an evening to warm the caravan.

When breakfast is wanted in a hurry, to ensure an early start, the cooking is done the night before, and the tea made and poured off the leaves into a large bottle, so that five minutes’ time in the morning is sufficient to warm everything. The oil for the range is hung underneath in a can.

Underneath also are slung two buckets, a dog’s food-can, and a dust-proof basket in which vegetables are carried, to be cleaned and made ready for cooking at the midday halt, and so prepared without delay when the bivouac is chosen.

Everything Done the Evening Before.

Everything that can be done the evening before should be done – boot cleaning, knife polishing, filling cistern and filter, and preparing the range for immediate lighting.

The Provision Book

This should be presented to you every morning at breakfast by your valet, who is to call your attention to the articles wanted, whether bread, butter, meat, vegetables, or groceries. Then the shopping is done in the forenoon as you pass through village or town, although many things are better and more cheaply procured at cottages.

An Early Start Desirable

Make an early start and all will go well. On the other hand, if you laze and dawdle in the morning the day will be spoiled, luncheon will be hurried, and dinner too late.

Asking the Road

This is the duty of your valet, who is on ahead with the tricycle. But do not trust altogether to him, but when any doubt exists ask yourself, and be sure that your informant really knows his right hand from his left. Remember that if a man stands facing you his right is your left.

Draymen, butchers, and waggoners, are the best men to enquire the state of the roads of, as regards hills, condition, etc.

I make a point of mingling in a kindly way of an evening with the villagers at the inns where my horses are stabled. I get much amusement sometimes by so doing. I meet many queer characters, hear many a strange story, and last but not least get well-ventilated opinions as to the best and nearest roads.

A caravannist must not be above talking to all kinds and conditions of men. If he has pride he must keep it in a bucket under the caravan. Never if possible get —

Belated

If you do, you are liable to accidents of all kinds. I have been run into more than once at night by recklessly-driving tipsy folks. Certainly it only slightly shook my great caravan, but capsized the dogcart.

While on the Road

While on the road, your coachman will for the horses’ sakes keep on the best parts. Make room, however, wherever possible for faster vehicles that want to pass you. But whenever the drivers of them are insolent I laugh and let them wait; they dare not “ram” me. Ramming would not affect the Wanderer in the slightest, but would be rough on the rammer.

Stabling

Stable your horses every night. Never think of turning them out. The horses are your moving power, and you cannot take too much care of them. See then that they are carefully groomed and fed, and stand pastern-deep in dry straw.

Civility

This is a cheap article. Be civil to everyone, and you will have civility in return.

The Price of Stabling

Make it a rule, as I do, to know exactly what you have to pay for your horses’ accommodation. You will thus have no words in the morning, you will part in friendship with the landlord, who will be glad to see you when you return, while the ostler’s good word can be bought cheaply enough.

Water

Drink nothing but what has passed through the filter. I use one from the Silicated Carbon Company, and find it excellent.

Dangers of the Road

These are nominal, and need hardly be mentioned. I carry a revolver which I seldom load; I have shutters that I seldom put up; and I often sleep with an open door. But I have a faithful dog. My most painful experience on the road this year I sent an account of to the Pall Mall under the title of “A Terrible Telegram.”

“A few claret corks and an empty ‘turkey and tongue’ tin – nothing else will be left to mark the spot where the Wanderer lay.” My friend Townesend gazed on the grass as he spoke, and there was a look of sadness in his face, which, actor though he be, I feel sure was not assumed. He had come to see the last of me and my caravan – the last for a time, at all events – to bid me good-bye and see me start. Parting is sweet sorrow, and I had spent a most enjoyable week at that delightful, quiet, wee watering-place, Filey, Yorkshire. I had lazed and written, I had lounged and read; my very soul felt steeped in a dreamy glamour as pleasant as moonshine on the sea; I had enjoyed the dolee far niente, book in hand, among the wild thyme on the sunny cliffs of Guisthorpe; for me, blades of dulse – the esculent and delicious rhodamenia palmata– culled wet from the waves that lapped and lisped among the Brigg’s dark boulders, had been veritable lotus leaves, and, reclining by the mouth of a cave, I could readily believe in fairies and sea nymphs – ay, and mermaids as well. No letters to write, no bills to pay, no waiters to tip – for is not the Wanderer my hotel upon wheels? – and no lodging-house cat, – surely one would think a gentleman gipsy’s life leaves little to be desired. And truly speaking, apart from that “terrible hill” which, day after day, seems ever on ahead of us, but which we always manage to surmount, caravanning in summer has but few drawbacks. So perfectly free and easy, so out-and-out happy is one’s existence when so engaged, that he actually cares as little for the great current events of the day, or for the rise and fall of governments, as the whistling ploughboy does about the storms that rage in mid-Atlantic. Why then should that wretched little fraud, that so-called boon to the public, the sixpenny telegram, burst like a thunderstorm around my head, and tear my peace and joy to rags?

Listen, reader, and I already feel sore of your indulgence and sympathy. We left Filey on Monday forenoon, and after five days of toiling over the hills and wolds, found ourselves at Askern. Askern is a little spa and health resort, its waters are chemically similar to those of Harrogate, and useful in the same class of cases. The halt and maim and rheumatic come here, and those who seek for quiet and rest after months of drudgery at the desk’s dull wood. Many more would come were the place but better known. On Friday night here the rain came down in torrents, but Saturday morning was fine, so I allowed both my servants to take an after-dinner trip to Doncaster. I would take an after-dinner nap. I was on particularly good terms with myself; I had had letters from home, I had done a good day’s work, and presently meant to resume my writing.

“A telegram, sir!” A telegram? I took it and tore it open. A telegram always gives me momentary increase of heart-action, but this laconic message caused such pericardial sinking as I hope I shall never feel again. “Come home immediately, and wire the time you leave,” so ran the terrible telegram. But, greatest mystery of all, it name from Mark-lane, and the sender was not my wife but “Hyde.” I had never been to Mark-lane, and who is Hyde? But what dreadful calamity had happened to my home? My wife and bairnies live in Berks; but she must have gone to town, I thought, and been killed in the street, having but time to breathe my name and address ere closing her eyes for ever. Were she alive she herself would have wired, and not Hyde. There must be a mortuary at Mark-lane, and Hyde must be the dead-house doctor. I dashed my manuscript all aside, then rushed to the post-office and wired to Hyde for fullest particulars. There would be a train at four which would take me to London by 8:30.

Before I received the telegram my tongue was as red and clear as that of my Newfoundland dog’s, in a moment it had become white and furred; there was a burning sensation in my throat, and my heart felt as big as a bullock’s, and all these are symptoms of sudden shock and grief. But it was a time for action. In an hour the train would leave; ’twould seem a long, long hour to me. I packed my handbag with trembling hands, drew the shutters over all the windows of the Wanderer, determining to lock all up and board my valet at the hotel. Hurricane Bob, my dog, must have thought me mad, for I gave him the joint that had been meant for our Sunday’s dinner; it would not keep till my return. Then I went and sat down in the post-office, and with thumping heart awaited Hyde’s reply. How long the time seemed! How slowly the minute hand of the clock moved! My feelings must have been akin to those of a felon waiting the return of the jury and a verdict. The reply came at last, but only to deepen the mystery and my misery. No Hyde of Mark-lane could be found. I wired again, wired and waited for nearly another awful hour. Meanwhile my train had gone. The reader can judge of the state of my feelings, when at length the clicking needles informed the clerk that the first telegram was meant for another “Gordon Stables,” of another Askarn, spelt with an “a” instead of an “e.”

I did not know I had a double till now, because my name is so unusual. If I rejoiced in the name of John, and my patronymic were Smith, the marvel would be small, but the Gordon Stableses of that ilk are not dropped into this world out of a watering-can, so I do wonder who my double is, and sincerely hope that telegram has not brought him grief, but ten thousand a year.

I have no more to add. I trust if the reader does go on the road he will find a gipsy’s life as happy and pleasant as I have done. Good-bye.