The Romahome is easy to drive, more like a car than a motorhome. But it has no four-wheel drive and no off-road capabilities. Wet grass or loose gravel can make the wheels spin, so I stick to the roads. I drive at a steady, stately pace, like minor royalty; cornering at speed is likely to deposit things on the floor. Whenever I feel I’m slowing other people down, I pull over and let the cars go by. I listen to traffic reports on the radio, and my ears prick up whenever there’s advice for “drivers of high-sided vehicles”.
I have heat, light, a two-burner cooker, with grill, and washing facilities. The bed is narrow, but long enough for my six-foot-plus frame. I sleep very well, wherever I happen to be. The occasional bad dreams are all variations on a single theme: losing my camera. Reactions to my nomadic lifestyle range from “you must be mad!” to an envious appreciation. I’ve had a couple of “what the hell have I done?” days, but, on the whole, the first few months have gone very well.
Broadway... in the Cotswolds...
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