THE BUILD AND BUDGET BREAKDOWN.
BE INTENTIONAL: KEEP WHAT SERVES THE GOAL. LET GO OF THE REST
We’re an American and a Brit who chose van life because the cost and complexity of immigration made living together difficult. We were tired of having our lives dictated by visa restrictions and decided to find a different way to be together.
But first, we had to fund it.
We fell hard for van life, binge-watching social media for inspiration. But costs were a mystery, and builds kept getting bigger, fancier and more outrageous. Our dream was getting more expensive by the scroll.
Then we crunched the numbers...
NO F***ING WAY! $85K AND UP?
We couldn’t keep waiting. Leaving our jobs at 55 and 60 meant making it happen—and fast. We sold everything we wouldn’t need for five years, including our car, furniture, housewares, motorcycle, sports & camping gear, clothing and electronics. We downsized our lives to a 5 × 10 ft storage unit and raised £8,000 from selling our belongings.
Our van and conversion
We bought a retired fleet 2022 Peugeot Boxer for £11,000. It was basic, industrial, and came with no extras. We were working toward a fixed timeline, so we bought it sight unseen to secure it.
We had the skills to do much of the work ourselves, but we were travelling back and forth through Europe doing the “Schengen shuffle.” We’d sold most of our tools, had no suitable workspace and an English winter wasn’t ideal for building outdoors. With our immigration constraints, hiring professionals was the practical way to keep moving and stay on schedule.
The professional conversion cost £11,452 and included insulation, sound dampening, windows, a MaxxAir roof fan, solar & electrical systems, LED lighting, a refrigerator, diesel heating, wall and ceiling finishes, basic flooring, a kitchen, water tanks & pump and a bed frame.
We then spent £3,689 on the essentials to make it livable, including safety equipment, a gas stove, mattress, portable toilet, flat-pack cabinets & sofa, shore-power equipment and other necessities.
Our must-haves
We weren’t building a luxury showroom. We wanted a practical, comfortable, four-season home for two.
Our priorities included:
- 5–7 days off-grid without hookups.
- A sofa that transforms into a chaise lounge.
- A stowable workspace for two.
- A spacious garage for our electrical system, gear, and clothing.
- Smart insulation and sound dampening.
- Plenty of storage, including secure space for our technology.
- A functional kitchen with a deep sink and expandable counter space.
- A portable toilet tucked into the garage.
- Indoor showers in winter and outdoor showers through the rear doors in summer.
- Reliable heating for cold-weather adventures.
Every choice had a purpose. Every inch had to work.
So, our final numbers to be ready to hit the road:
Net cost to get on the road: |**£18,141** |**€21,225**|**$23,039** |**158,734 kr
We left debt-free, with a comfortable home on wheels that we could keep improving as we went. Yes, we still have some sanding and staining to do, but we’ll get to it from a campsite in another country when we feel like it!
Could you do it for less? Absolutely.
You could save money by buying an older van, taking more time to find a better deal, doing more of the installation work yourself, building your own kitchen, installing flat-pack furniture and using what you already own.
We could have saved thousands by doing more ourselves, but time, immigration restrictions and the lack of a workspace made that difficult for us.
You don’t need a perfect van, a huge budget or a complete build before you leave.
The goal isn’t to build the perfect van before you leave. The goal is to create enough of a home to begin the life you want.
That’s what freedom means to us: choosing each other, simplifying our lives and making our money work for the life we actually want to live.
If you’d like to follow our journey and see more of the build, the clever solutions and what we learn along the way, come along with us.
WE STOPPED WATCHING. WE STARTED LIVING.
REMI — OUR HOME ON THE ROAD
We spent years dreaming about life on the road, watching other people do it and wondering whether we could make it work. Then we stopped watching and started living it. The story of Remi, becoming intentional nomads and discovering what it really means to make your home wherever you are.
For years, we watched other people live the life we wanted. We watched the van-life videos, imagined different layouts, talked about what we'd build if we ever had the space, the time and the money — and gradually realised we were spending rather a lot of time thinking about living differently.
So eventually, we stopped watching. We started with a TentBox on our car, exploring the UK whenever we could. We loved it, but it also taught us what we wanted from a more permanent setup: more space, fewer restrictions and the freedom to leave our home wherever we'd found it and go exploring.
Our first van was an attempt at making that happen. We bought it while we were still sketching ideas for what we'd eventually build ourselves. It sat for three years before we owned it, and we spent dark winter evenings checking on it, trying to make it habitable. We never actually spent a night in it.
Life had other plans. We made a family commitment to spend time in the US, and meanwhile our thinking about how we wanted to live was changing. We sold that first van, fortunately breaking even, simplified what we owned and started building our idea of an intentional nomad life.
Then came Remi. We found her while we were in the US — an ex-rental Peugeot Boxer in the UK. We bought her remotely, researched the conversion from thousands of miles away and spent far too many hours designing and redesigning what we thought we needed.
In the end, we went back to basics. Good insulation. Proper electrics. Water. A simple kitchen. A decent fridge. Storage. A bed over a usable garage. Solar. A serious leisure battery. Heating. The things that mattered, without trying to turn a six-metre van into a luxury apartment.
We collected her in February 2026. Five nights later, she was home.
There were boxes everywhere. We'd raided our storage space for the things we thought we'd need, friends came to wish us well, and we spent our first night in Remi with the slightly surreal feeling of children playing camping — except this time, we were actually moving in.
We left Faversham and headed for Scotland. That's where the theory became real.
Remi carried everything: clothes, food, cameras, computers, fishing gear, tools, social-media equipment and all the other stuff two people accumulate when they're trying to live a mobile life. We quickly discovered that van life isn't simply about freedom. It's about decisions, compromise, planning, adapting and occasionally working out how to fix something when you're hundreds of miles from anywhere familiar.
We also discovered that when your car breaks down, you have a problem. When your home breaks down, everything changes. In Scotland, Remi refused to start. We had strangers stopping to help, mechanics improvising solutions, a tow to a garage and eventually a new procedure involving a key and a button. Later, on the NC500, the dashboard decided to become a mobile Christmas tree, with warning lights appearing for ABS, hill hold and the engine. It wasn't always easy.
But then there were the mornings when we opened the back doors and Scotland was outside. The days exploring places we'd dreamed about. Standing in the River Ness with a fly rod. Walking to the Bone Caves. Finding ourselves somewhere completely unexpected and thinking, we're actually doing this.
And that's what Remi has become. Not the point of the journey. Not the whole story. The vehicle that lets us live it. Since February 2026, we've been learning what that really means — how little we actually need, which things earn their space, how to adapt when plans change, how to make a home wherever we park, and how much work goes into creating the freedom we imagined would simply happen. We're still figuring it out. And that's rather the point.
SCOTLAND — WHERE REMI BECAME REAL
FIVE MONTHS ON THE ROAD — SCOTLAND
Scotland was where life in Remi stopped being an idea and became reality. Five months of mountains, coastlines, weather, adventure, breakdowns, unexpected kindness and experiences that made us realise we'd actually done it — we'd created a life on the road.
Scotland was where our plans met reality. We'd left Faversham with Remi, our new home on the road, and headed north with a mixture of excitement, anticipation and the vague belief that we'd probably worked out what we were doing. We hadn't.
We started in the south, around Gretna Green and the Solway Firth, before gradually working our way west and north. The landscape seemed to change by the mile — roads narrowing, mountains appearing, and Scottish weather arriving from apparently every direction at once.
We headed around the west coast, through West Loch Tarbert and out towards the Slate Isles, where the walking became increasingly vertical. At one point even the sheep appeared to have worked out that walking horizontally was probably the sensible option. We ignored the sheep. We went straight up. Scotland gave us spectacular landscapes, but it also gave us hard work. Walking, weather, roads, getting wet, getting cold, getting lost and occasionally questioning quite why we'd decided that climbing that particular hill was a good idea.
And then there were the moments that made all of it worthwhile. Skye was one of those places. We explored the island and the extraordinary landscape around the Cuillins, finding ourselves in the kind of scenery that makes conversation seem unnecessary.
We also discovered that travelling in your own home comes with a very different set of problems. Towards the end of one of our WWOOF projects, we stayed overnight so we could make an early start. The morning began normally enough: coffee, road, Highland cattle and calves, a roadside coffee cabin, photographs and social media. Then we turned the key. Nothing. We tried again. Still nothing. What followed involved strangers stopping to help, tools appearing from nowhere, jump-start attempts, bump-start suggestions, Google searches, coffee, cake and a remarkable amount of human kindness. Eventually a roadside mechanic managed to get Remi started, but we were told to find an auto electrician — and, crucially, not to switch the engine off.
So we didn't. We drove south with one of us keeping a very close eye on the ignition and eventually found a mechanic near Glasgow who could help. Remi was towed away, and we discovered the slightly unnerving reality that when your vehicle is also your home, a breakdown isn't simply a trip to the garage. Everything you own is inside it. The eventual solution involved fitting a button to the starter and learning a new driving procedure: Turn key. Push button.
And somehow, that became normal.
Weeks later, while travelling the NC500, Remi decided to become a mobile Christmas tree, lighting up the dashboard with ABS, hill-holder and engine warnings. Another mechanic eventually traced the ABS and hill-holder warnings to a rear wheel-speed sensor. Then came an AdBlue pressure fault and another round of wondering exactly what Remi was trying to tell us. None of this was particularly convenient. All of it became part of the adventure.
Because Scotland wasn't simply about the things that went wrong. It was about discovering what we'd actually chosen. We crossed and recrossed the country, taking in Edinburgh, Arbroath, Glasgow and everywhere between them, following whatever combination of weather, opportunity, work, family commitments and curiosity made sense at the time. There was the River Ness, where I finally got to stand in the water with a fly rod in my hand after we'd had to change our plans around Scottish weather. At one point, Storm Dave had forced us to shelter in a warehouse south of Perth rather than continue as planned. Eventually we reached Inverness.
I stood in the River Ness. Jess was beside me. And there was one of those quiet moments when a dream doesn't arrive with trumpets. It just quietly becomes your Tuesday.
The NC500 gave us another. We walked towards the Bone Caves, following the stream uphill through typically changeable Scottish weather. We walked, climbed and filmed until we reached the caves. Then Jess turned the camera towards herself. "We want to share an announcement…" For a few seconds, I genuinely thought she'd decided we were moving to Scotland. Then came the announcement: "We've found our new home." We were taking up cave life. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. And it was us.
That's perhaps what Scotland taught us most. The journey isn't always the easy bit. Sometimes it's wet and cold and exhausting. Sometimes your plans change. Sometimes your home refuses to start. Sometimes you find yourself solving problems you never expected to have. But sometimes you wake up, make coffee, open the back doors and discover Scotland outside.
And you realise: We're actually doing this.
Five months travelling around Scotland and England gave us a very different understanding of what it means to live on the road. Freedom doesn't mean having nothing to organise. In many ways, it means creating your own structure — deciding where to go, where to sleep, when to find water, what needs charging, what needs fixing and when to stop rushing and actually enjoy where you are.
The photographs only tell part of the story. Scotland was the mountains, coastlines, wildlife and wild weather. It was the breakdowns, the mechanics and the unexpected kindness of strangers.
It was fly fishing in the River Ness, climbing towards the Bone Caves and laughing about cave life. It was discovering that the life we'd spent so long imagining was no longer something we were watching other people do. We were living it.
THE REALITY OF LIFE ON THE ROAD
WHEN YOUR HOME BREAKS DOWN
When your car breaks down, you call a garage. When your home breaks down, everything changes. Our Scottish breakdown taught us a lot about problem-solving, adapting, accepting help — and keeping our sense of humour when everything we own is being towed down a Scottish road.
We'd reached Skye, explored the Cuillins and were coming towards the end of one of our WWOOF projects. We'd stayed overnight so we could make an early start, and the morning began about as normally as any other. Coffee. Road. Highland cattle and calves. A little roadside coffee cabin. Photographs. Social media. One of those spontaneous stops that becomes part of the journey.
Then I turned the key. Nothing. We tried again. Nothing. Suddenly, the romantic idea of van life acquired a rather different vocabulary.
Strangers stopped to help. Tools appeared. Someone tried a jump start. Someone suggested a bump start. There was coffee. There was cake. There were Google searches. And there was a remarkable amount of human kindness. Eventually, a roadside mechanic managed to get Remi started by bridging the starter and what I think was the solenoid. The diagnosis was that we needed an auto electrician. There was just one instruction: Don't switch the engine off. So we didn't.
For several hours, Jess became the keeper of the ignition. If my hand moved vaguely towards the key, I was likely to receive a very firm reminder. We drove south. At Kyle of Lochalsh, a garage looked at us and essentially told us that ex-hire vans were all like this and that we should expect more problems. They had no space for us for six weeks. Six weeks. We had a six metre home attached to an increasingly unreliable electrical system and apparently the solution was to put life on hold!
So we searched again. We drove for hours without stopping until we reached Bishopton, near Glasgow, where a local mechanic named John agreed to help. This was where the difference between a car breaking down and a home breaking down really hit us. If your car breaks down, you have a problem but you navigate inconvenient adjustments as it accrues a garage bill. If your home breaks down and everything you own is inside it, you have a slightly different problem.
John arrived with another mechanic, hitched Remi to the back of his van and towed her away.
I stood there watching my entire life disappear down a Scottish road. Jess emerged from the guesthouse in her pyjamas, towel and shampoo in hand, apparently having assumed that I would have had the good sense to prevent a stranger from driving away with everything we owned. I had not.
The eventual solution was wonderfully agricultural meets modern tech. There was no power reaching the starter. There were potentially expensive electronic solutions involving engine management systems. Or there was a button. They fitted the button. We learnt a new driving procedure, and somehow, that became normal.
A couple of days later, the dashboard lit up with warnings about the ABS and hill holder. A battery reset following the starter work appeared to have upset the system. Another reset and test drive sorted those particular warnings. For a while.
Now on the NC500, Remi decided she was going to become a mobile Christmas tree: ABS warning. Hill-holder warning. Engine warning. We were driving a campervan through one of the most spectacular landscapes in Europe while every conceivable warning light appeared to be telling us that something was about to go catastrophically wrong. We were, quite literally, driving a mobile disco.
Another mechanic eventually traced the ABS and hill-holder warnings to a rear wheel-speed sensor. The system was reset. Then came the AdBlue pressure fault. We filled the tank.
A few days later, I accidentally turned the key without remembering that we now had to push the starter button. Remi started. Which raised the slightly irritating possibility that the AdBlue system may have been more central to the whole drama than anyone had originally appreciated. I've never quite decided whether that was mechanical genius, coincidence or Remi simply deciding that she'd concerned us enough.
What we did learn was that van life isn't about everything working perfectly. It's about adapting when it doesn't. It's about asking for help. It's about finding another mechanic when the first one can't help. It's about solving the problem in front of you rather than reacting to the ten problems that might come next. And sometimes it's about laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Because eventually, the engine starts. You drive on. And the next adventure is waiting.