Nobody tells you that the fantasy of aspirational van life is heavily dependent on temperature. Instagram sells campervans as freedom, simplicity and soulful sunsets beside turquoise lakes.

What they don’t show you is a middle-aged woman in four layers of clothing sitting in Wales in May wondering whether her internal organs have permanently lowered in temperature.The problem with British van life is not actually the van. It’s Britain.

Our weather is so unreliable that every trip becomes a psychological gamble between “wild outdoor wellness goddess” and “cold, damp woman rage-eating crisps in thermal socks.”

And honestly, warmth matters more than people admit. When you’re warm, everything feels romantic. Rain on the roof. Tea in plastic mugs. Windy coastal walks. The sound of the sea. When you’re cold, you suddenly start questioning every life choice that brought you there.

Luxury resorts begin whispering to you seductively from your subconscious. This is the great contradiction of Gen X adventure culture.

We crave authenticity, simplicity and outdoor living…

…but we also increasingly appreciate underfloor heating and a decent mattress.

And maybe that’s maturity. Not needing suffering to prove you’re alive. I still love the campervan life. I love the freedom, the movement, the reset it gives my brain.

But I no longer romanticise discomfort in the same way. Because after fifty, warmth is not weakness. It’s wellbeing.