³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ

It struck me (it was either the sunshine or the pint of Old Speckled Hen) that in this time of morally bankrupt bank mismanagers and tricksy hedge fund bonus grubbers that blokes like the chap outside the pub has got it about right.

No yacht in St Tropez harbour or chalet at St Moritz, he trundles along in his van listening to great music and doing as little harm to the planet as he can.

What a great way to live.

I've been looking for a campervan for years now. Like Toad in The Wind In The Willows, I have this vision of the open road and me on it in my little van.

Fishing rod and banjo in the back, a bottle of good wine chilling in the fridge, I pull up on some riverbank miles from the hustle and bustle, cast a Waterhen Bloa onto the water and take a nice brownie for my tea.

After that I toddle off to the pub where a whole bunch of musicians and singers are all lashing into a rake of reels and songs and they let me sit in and play and don't bother about my bum notes.

The next morning I head off to and get into town just as Dave Burland, Mick Heywood and Derek and Dorothy Elliot are lashing onto a great rendition of 'Three Score and Ten' in the Elsinore and the Camerons Strongarm is flowing and if not free, then not madly dear.

After singing all night in the pub I wobble off to the van and crash out, waking in the morning to the song of the gulls, the sound of the waves on the beach and the smell of frying bacon.

Well, as my old gran used to say: "you may as well dream here as in bed."