The camper van rolled slowly along the narrow coastal road, its cupboards gently rattling with each bend. Inside, everything had its place: the little gas hob tucked beneath a wooden cover, enamel mugs hanging from tiny hooks, and a folded map that had been opened and closed so many times it barely remembered its original creases. The beauty of travelling this way was the smallness of it all — a bed that turned into a bench, a table that disappeared into the wall, and the quiet satisfaction of brewing tea while parked beside a view that most people only ever saw through a car window.

By evening the van had found its resting spot, a patch of rough grass overlooking the sea. The sliding door stayed open as the light faded, letting in the cool air and the distant sound of waves. Supper was simple — bread, cheese, and something warm from the pan — but it tasted better for being eaten outside, perched on the van’s step. Later, with the curtains drawn and the roof ticking softly as it cooled, the van became a small, self-contained world, rocking gently whenever someone turned over in the night.