From Tide Watching to Tent-Peg Pro

Day 19 of the Nomadic Caravan Life

It’s been 19 days since my mother and I set off on our nomadic caravan journey—excluding the two months of prepping in my daughter’s garden, of course. Truth be told, it feels like much longer. Maybe because, on the soul level, this journey started long before the wheels began to roll.

Since we arrived at our first real stop, we’ve faced nearly every kind of weather—and survived to tell the tale. I’ve learned how to adjust tent ropes so we don’t fly off like Dorothy in a storm (thanks to a few friendly, seasoned campers).

We’ve walked through puddles inside the tent—yes, inside—but thankfully the earth absorbed the water quickly. One essential lesson: the caravan stays dry only if you remember to close the top window. Lesson learned. No soggy bedding since.

Adding the front panel to the rally tent was a brilliant move. And those little curtains? Privacy when we need it. Shade when the sun blazes. It’s beginning to feel like home.

We cook one-pot meals now—not out of gourmet passion, but to spare ourselves dishes. Strangely enough, we’ve come to enjoy it. And living with my mother? A quiet joy. She asks for little and gives much. She’s happy here—doing her chair yoga, going for her daily walk (she prefers her measured 1km loop), and writing in her diary. Perhaps one day she’ll let me share some of it. For now, it’s hers, and I honour that.

She can’t walk on the beach—loose sand frightens her—but she can see it, hear it, smell it. And I bring her treasures from the shore.

Which brings me to something I didn’t expect: the tides.

I’ve become a tide-watcher. Not just out of necessity—though low tide is the best time to walk: firmer sand, calmer waves, a sense of spaciousness—but also because there’s something deeply cleansing about it. It’s hard to explain. It’s like the beach breathes out at low tide, and I can finally breathe in.

And then there are the birds.

Whether it’s boredom or a budding fascination, I’ve found myself becoming a bit of a birder. I look them up, try to match songs to species, snap photos when they stay still long enough. They’ve become part of my days now, their presence almost comforting.

We’ve met all kinds of people too. Maybe I should keep a log of them.

You get the wavers (just a smile and a nod), the altruistics (those who invite you for drinks, meals, fireside chats—whether you’re ready or not), and the advisers (you should do this, you must have that, let me tell you how…).

But by and large, people are kind. When we camp, we’re all stripped down to the basics. Titles fall away. It’s just humans in tents and caravans, chasing sun and stories.

So yes, we’re still on this road. Still learning. Still loving. Even if the only thing I’ve properly managed to sort out is the WiFi (thank you, Vodacom!).

And no—I still don’t have online work. But I have sunsets. I have sand underfoot. I have a happy mother beside me. And I have the tide to keep time.