They say that you’ll know it when you see it and after six hours driving up to Glasgow, fighting through post-football game traffic, rounding a corner we saw it. And we knew it. Big in a small kind of way, newish but with a just broken in vibe.
After confirming the particulars and a tough bargaining session where we refused to pay one pence over full asking price, we shook hands. Watching a half dozen campervans disappear out from under you changes your perspective on who has the power in these things. We did at least get the owner to throw in a fresh M.O.T. inspection and service. A few hundred pounds of cash hand money and a promise of a larger deposit to take it off the market and the deal was on.
We were overjoyed, but we couldn’t just move in and drive away. Oh no. This is going to take some bureaucratic maneuvering. More on that later.
We had to stick around town while the sale was finalized but all the hotels were booked for the aforementioned football game so Marce found, as she described it, an old pub and a room with a view over the river Clyde. Who could resist? Staying within a few miles of wherever the campervan lives for the moment seemed to make sense. What could go wrong?
We quickly found the Ferry Inn. Marce went to reconnoiter and entered a heaving press of young locals crammed shoulder to shoulder blowing off steam after a hard work week. Pardon me-ing our way through the crowd with luggage in tow was an athletic event and we had to shout over the loud music to communicate with the barmaid checking us in. I noticed a guy setting up a small DJ booth painted in day glow with “Ooh, Baby Baby” sprayed across the front.
We schlepped our way to the second floor and the promised room with a view over the river Clyde. By that time the DJ had started work, replacing the pub playlist with a continuous chugga chugga of dance tracks.
We thought dinner at the Indian restaurant down the street might be a good idea, but when we returned to the pub an hour later the party was really getting started. Back upstairs some kind of primordial sympathetic resonance turned our room into the inside of a huge bass drum. As the night wore on the volume inevitably shot up and I had concerns for the old pub structure. The vibration was such that my eyes couldn’t focus like an old TV without proper signal. Objects in the room shimmered and blinked with the booming vibration as pictures rattled against the walls and tilted. Everything seemed askew. The bed felt like it might vibrate across the floor, a funhouse version of the 50s motel “magic fingers.” Were the walls warping in and out? Marce was giddy with relief at finding our campervan, and nearly hysterical laughing at our situation.
Not me. I had to find a way to get some sleep. I’d hoped the DJ’s amp was only on 11 but I think he found an even more violent level.
Ear buds, a pile of pillows, and exhaustion seemed to do the trick.
The next thing I heard was a loud boom and then another, with a cascade of explosions to follow. We hopped out of bed as brilliant colors lit up the room.
From our window we could see there was an event at the private club next door and fireworks were part of the party. It went on for a good ten minutes, lighting up the river Clyde and our room with the view. What a way to celebrate finding our campervan!
At this point we noticed that the cacophony of sound was silent. Ooh Baby Baby, profoundly deaf by this point, probably thinks his kit is still working but no one else can hear him anymore either.
In the morning we thought we’d sneak out and grab some breakfast but the outside gate was padlocked and we didn’t have the combination. We were locked in until the pub opened at 11.
Eventually someone showed up with a mouth full of apologies and we were free.
Free to coddiwomple.
