Tim sat on the steps at the back of the caravan. It was a still evening as he sat slicing an apple in his hand. The camp here was still mixed. All romany but some still clinging to the old ways of man made tents out of branches and canvas while a few bad horse drawn caravans. 

Tim grew up in a tent and wound never go back to sleeping on the cold wet ground. His caravan was his home and it was his worldly possession that he took great pride in. It consisted of a double bed up front with storage underneath. A small pot bellied stove for warmth and cooking with some storage at the sides. His tools of his trades were carried outside to save the soot covering his house. 

Romany were proud people despite being chased throughout Europe for their lifestyles. 

The fire crackled away not to far from the caravan as a kettle hung over it on a tripod for boiling water for one to make tea and two. So he could wash himself before bed. It was a simple life and a peaceful one.