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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Three Counties Action on behalf of A.M. Hennel and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

It was in the early years of the 1939 war, when my husband and I were both working in reserved occupations, that, as serious action had not begun, we were allowed a week’s holiday. What to do? My Mother came up with an interesting solution. A shopkeeper in the village (Knebworth) had bought a caravan from an old Romany woman who had to go to hospital and he would hire it to us. Our van was brightly coloured real Romany, with a chicken coop built into one side. The inside had an iron stove with a chimney through the roof, a wooden bunk across the back, pictures of the Cries of London on the sides and the ability to hang our bicycle on the back.

So — where to go? We cycled round the district to find a good route and found the ideal: flat country lanes and midway a farmer willing for us to stay on his land and who would look over the pony, which had always lived with the caravan, and supply anything needed.

When we told the owner this, he explained that the insurance would only insure if we went along their chosen route, which was up onto a heath or common land to spend the first night. We had to walk with the horse as it would walk in the middle of the road, knowing that the camber made the van pull uncomfortably. We arrived on the common to find that a group of Romany horse dealers were already there, so we found a place on the other side of a copse of trees to be out of their way. My husband had never handled a horse before and was rather nervous of our poor little pony, but we managed to take off the harness and tether him to have a good rest and feed of grass.

I made a meal from the rations we had brought and we started our meal when we were visited by a little girl riding a man’s bike (legs under the bar) and holding a hunk of bread and jam; quite a gymnastic trick. She hung about asking questions until we said she should go back, we gave her a couple of biscuits and off she went. Shortly afterwards we found about five of the men in a semi circle round us looking a bit ‘solemn’. They wanted to know how we got the caravan, because they said no Romany would ever sell a van. We assured them that we had only borrowed it from the owner for the experience of living in a Romany van!! Eventually they went away — thank goodness! The tradition is that if a Romany owner dies the caravan is set on fire!

When it began to get dark, one of the men whistled and all their horses went to him immediately. Unfortunately our pony knew the whistle and went too! We had to chase after him and then secure him very well to the van. When it was time for bed we thought it wise to take all our equipment inside, so we retired to the bunk at the back of the van hauling the bicycle and the rather smelly, damp harness after us. Next morning the Romanies had moved on so we stayed another day; I lit the stove and cooked a meal in the oven and then we found wild strawberries in the wood for dessert.

The next day we harnessed up and set off on the ‘approved’ route, which was down a steep hill from the common to join the road from Harpenden to Luton, passing along the wall of Luton Hoo Estate on the left and the railway embankment on the right. We heard from a local that Sherman tanks were being tested, going in at the Harpenden end and coming out of the Luton end and then back along this road to complete the route, and that two milk float ponies had bolted and smashed up their carts — Ow! So what to do? When we heard the rumble of a tank approaching (and it made a goodly noise between the high wall and the embankment) my husband put on the brake, I put bricks under the wheels, husband hung onto the horse’s head and I stood in the middle of the road and held my hands up to stop the tanks! I didn’t care if it upset their schedule. I asked them not to move until we were safely past, but the pony was up on its hind legs and it was all we could do to get him past safely.

After that we petted him a lot and trundled into Luton. Along the street a greengrocer offered us some carrots for the horse, and eventually we arrived at the approved site on the Dunstable Downs. We spent a couple of days there in fine weather and then it began to rain. All the time there was spoilt for me, though I said nothing, thinking of that dreaded road to negotiate. Anyway we planned to wait outside the Luton end gate of Luton Hoo until a tank had come out and started along the road. Then hoping that there would be a gap before the next we made what speed we could and just made it to the end before the next tank followed us. Meantime it rained and rained — my shoes were full of water.

Next the turn off the road and up the lane with the steep hill, where I had to walk behind the van with my bricks to put under the wheels every time the pony stopped, panting — I thought it might die — but very slowly we made it to the common. Luckily no Romanies were there, so we dried ourselves as well as possible, had a meal and fell asleep exhausted.

One more day and a gentle trundle home.

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