Inside today
On the road
Helen Medlyn’s shower does the dirty on her
Annie and Al welcomed me back to their farm with a big glass of wine, a gorgeous meal and their guest room bed made up. I woke the next day to the sound of the Waihopai River and a bellbird singing in the gum trees. Heaven.
After a walk around the farm to reacquaint myself with my charges, I started to set up ‘‘house’’.
I was glad I’d decided to do the Ark thing and bring only two of everything, at least in the cuisine department – but heaven knows what I’ll do if more than one person comes to visit!
I didn’t quite follow the ‘‘only two’’ rule when it came to clothes, but I’d brought the minimum, so was able to stash it all into the five wee cubbyholes above my ‘‘sitting room’’.
That label is a bit of a misnomer, as my lounge leads a double life, transforming into my boudoir at night. I flip the upholstery over and, voila, there is a mattress on a slat bed. I open a nearby cupboard and there’s my bedding. It’s always toasty, because the gas fridge – which uses heat to cool its innards – is underneath.
Not many people have a fridge in their bedroom . . . and even fewer have one that keeps their bedding warm while keeping their chardonnay cool.
The perks of caravanning, people!
On the Saturday, I decided to have my first shower in my caravan. I got undressed and stepped into my bathroom, aka the waterproof cupboard containing my loo, shower and hand basin. I turned the shower on. Bliss! Not much pressure – in fact, so little I had to run around in it to get wet – but it felt divine . . . until it stopped . . . and a sound that did spooky things to the back of my neck erupted within my caravan. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Standing there, dripping wet, I asked no-one in particular, ‘‘What is THAT?’’ I opened the door to be met by the squeal at an even higher volume. It was coming from my water tank. I took two wet steps to the opposite wall where the control panel was and switched the water pump off. Silence.
Hoping the noise might have been a mere aberration, I flicked it on again. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I stopped it mid-squee. ‘‘What have I done now?’’ I thought.
Though it was evening, I rang the dealer who said, ‘‘It sounds like you’ve run out of water.’’ It didn’t sound like that to me. Someone having a bad hair day and running screaming from the room is what it sounded like to me! But, I dried myself off, got my 10-litre water cannister and filled the tank to the brim, sure that the next time I drew water, silence would prevail.
Fat chance.
Sunday morning, I switched on the water pump. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Shutting it off quickly, I rang the dealer again.
‘‘Must be air in the pipe,’’ he said. ‘‘Bleed it out by disconnecting the pipe from the tank, then reconnecting it.’’ ‘‘OK. Thanks,’’ thinking that can’t be too hard. I was wrestling with it to no avail when what turned out to be the cavalry arrived, in the form of Nathan, the farmer from across the road and his 7-year-old son, Jackson. I told them about having air in a pipe and, before you could say ‘‘knife’’, Nathan had disconnected it (by pushing the valve in, not pulling it, as I had been doing), ‘‘burped’’ it and reconnected it.
I switched on the water pump.
Silence. Not a sausage.
Best sound I never heard.
When opera singer Helen Medlyn withdrew from performing, she threw caution to the wind, took out her savings and bought a little caravan and an SUV. She’s been on the road ever since, enjoying a mobile lifestyle.
Standing there, dripping wet, I asked no-one in particular, ‘What is THAT?’ I opened the door to be met by the squeal at an even higher volume.