She yawned again, this time with arms outstretched, revealing horrendously bushy armpits, which I’d never noticed before.

She began to slide off the bed. ‘C’mon, laddie, let’s get to Spain before lunchtime.’

Got my own ghouls, Stanley, dear –

the nameless mother who shamelessly left me,

the named father who could have rescued me,

the son who selfishly deserted me –

getting in my way when I’m walking,

popping in my head when I’m talking,

creeping around me, stalking.

A Thousand Miles from Home

It was so blue-rinse, so retired-couple-touring-the-shires, so, shall we say, cheap-holiday-home-on-a-site-in-Essex, and, when overtaken by those ubiquitous jet-propelled palaces on wheels towed by Mercedes-Benzes, it felt like dragging a pathetic farm truck packed with cows. Once we hit the southern sun, it was different. Suddenly the caravan felt lightweight, bouncing along behind us, smoothly able to handle Jessie’s screeching brake stops and deadly swift mountainous turns.

We circumnavigated the big cities, looping back or threading through to pick up the coastal roads. Barcelona. Tarragona. Castellon. Valencia. Alicante. Almeria. Malaga. We climbed the curlicues of mountains. I was awed by the sheer drop to olive groves so far down they looked like rows of bonsai trees. We’d find a deserted valley and camp for a few days: the joyous absence of man or machines, the whole of a morning sky; sounds only of the natural world – rivers, birds, and, well, things like that.

When I came, I heard myself rebound off mountain walls because I hollered for the first time ever, because for the first time ever no one could hear.

We continued on our journey, the sea view disappearing behind high-rise apartments or flat-faced pueblos, ridged terracotta roofs clustered on both sides of the road.

The surprise of rounding a bend and seeing the sea spread before us, like silvery turquoise foil.

I became adept at packing the camping accoutrements in the caravan: everything was secured in cupboards and suitcases so that nothing fell out en route. Jessie was cook and driver. I assumed the role of co-pilot and house-boy, and, no matter how many times I complained, I had to tidy up after her all the time. I knew that if I kept on at her, she’d change her dishevelled ways.

I learned how to wash with a beaker of water and a lemon, which I thought a bit extreme, actually, but Jessie said it was part of my survival training. (What’s she like.)

She was impressed at the speed with which I calculated the sterling–peseta equation. I convinced her to get a road map, and I learned how to follow foreign road signs quickly, and how to stay calm when she shouted at my mistakes.

‘All you’ve got to do is navigate, Stanley! I’m doing the hard work.’

‘Why don’t you let me drive, then?’

‘Would you really want me as your co-pilot?’

I stopped protesting.