Living Winter Slowly: How I Manage the Cold in My Off-Grid Lorry

Winter in an off-grid lorry is a season of its own. It’s colder, quieter, slower — and it asks you to live with more intention than any other time of year. This is my first winter living full-time in the lorry, and over time I’ve found a rhythm that works for both my lifestyle and my body.

Keeping Warm

Heat is the biggest challenge. My little log burner is the heart of the lorry — once it’s going, the space feels instantly alive. I’ve recently started installing a diesel heater as well, which will make early mornings easier. For now, the log burner does most of the work.

Up in the bed area above the cab, it’s surprisingly toasty. I use teddy-bear bedding, thick blankets, and a hot water bottle if the temperature really drops. Inside that cocoon of warmth, winter feels almost gentle. Plus obviously with 3 cats and a dog it gets super warm, especially when they all go under the duvet lol.

Managing Water in Freezing Weather

All my drinking water stays inside in large bottles so it never freezes. Outside, I have a main tank — and a couple of times this winter I’ve woken to find it iced over completely.

My solution is simple but effective:
I chip through the ice, drop my USB shower pump into the tank, and pump what I need into containers. I then filter the water inside the lorry to make it safe for drinking. It’s not glamorous, but it works — and there’s something oddly satisfying about this winter ritual.

Solar Power in Dark Months

Even in winter, my power setup has held up well.

• 1500 watts of solar panels

• 600 amps of lithium batteries

The sunlight is limited, but so far I haven’t run into major issues. I’m careful with usage and keep high-draw appliances to a minimum. In winter, power isn’t about abundance — it’s about balance.

Cooking & Staying Cosy

I use a slow cooker when the batteries allow it, but most of the time I cook on top of the log burner with my cast-iron Dutch oven. It saves gas and makes the whole lorry smell like proper home-cooked food.

Evenings are peaceful. The cats curl up by the fire, the dog settles on my lap, and I climb into my warm bed early with my iPad to watch something comforting. Winter becomes a soft, quiet routine.

Living With Fibromyalgia in the Cold

Cold weather can trigger flare-ups, so I have to pace myself more in winter. Some days I can do more, and some days I can’t. I listen to my body, keep warm, rest when I need to, and don’t push through pain the way I used to. I also find when the clocks fall back it is especially hard for my body to cope with the much darker evenings, and clock watching is now banned, I eat when I 'feel' hungry not when the clock says it is time, and I go to bed when I 'feel' tired and not when the clock says it is bed time!

The Mental Side of Winter

With the shorter days, low motivation can creep in. Lack of sun hits me harder than the cold sometimes. But winter also gives me permission to slow down — to lean into cosy evenings, simple food, warm bedding, and a quieter pace.

Winter Isn’t Easy — But It’s Manageable

Off-grid winter living is a mixture of challenges and small joys. The cold can be harsh and the routines are different, but there’s a peace in it too. A kind of simplicity that only winter brings.

And in the lorry, tucked away with the animals, the fire crackling, and the world quiet outside — winter feels like something I can meet gently, one slow day at a time.

When the Body Grieves Too

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Sometimes life unravels quietly, one thread at a time. You think you’re holding it all together — until the next thread slips through your fingers.

In the early spring of 2024, I injured my back while working at a stable yard. Horses had always been a kind of comfort to me — strong, grounding creatures that seemed to carry away the noise of the world. But one morning, while mucking out, something went wrong. A sharp twist, a sudden pain that took my breath away.

Two herniated discs, they told me. Rest. No lifting. No long hours on my feet. Words that sound simple until they become your reality. Overnight, I went from being capable and independent to barely able to get out of bed. It was humbling, and frightening, and left me questioning what my life would look like if I couldn’t return to the work I loved.

Just as I was starting to adjust to that new limitation, my father passed away in May. Grief arrived like a second injury — deeper, invisible, impossible to rest from. The two pains blurred together: the physical ache in my spine and the hollow ache in my chest.

I tried to stay strong, to keep moving forward, but my body had other plans. It grew heavier, slower, more unpredictable. Some days I could manage a walk, others I could barely lift a kettle. The fatigue crept in like fog. After more tests and hospital visits, the answer came: fibromyalgia.

It was both a relief and a heartbreak. Finally, there was a name for the pain that had been spreading through my body. But names don’t make it easier to bear. The diagnosis came with no cure, only management — a reminder that life, as I once knew it, was changing again.

Grief and chronic pain share a language. They both strip away the parts of you that you took for granted. They both force you to slow down, to live moment by moment, to measure life in smaller steps.

There are days I still feel angry — at my body, at fate, at the unfairness of losing so much so close together. And then there are quieter days, when I sit with a cup of tea, listen to the wind outside, and realise that this too is a kind of living. Softer, maybe. Slower. But still life.

Fibromyalgia has taught me to move gently, to listen more closely to what my body is trying to say. My father’s death has taught me that love doesn’t disappear with loss; it lingers in the small things — the smell of hay, the sound of rain, the steadiness of a horse’s breath.

Grief, pain, and healing aren’t separate things. They intertwine, shaping us in ways we never expect.
And somehow, even when it all feels too heavy, we keep going. Not because we’re unbreakable — but because even broken things can still move forward.

Starting Over: A New Chapter on Familiar Soil

After four years in Portugal, I found myself standing at a crossroads. The summers had grown hotter, the land drier, and despite my love for the quiet mountainside I’d called home, life was becoming harder. Earning an income out there wasn’t easy, and the relentless heat made even simple days feel like a battle. I had gone to Portugal to find peace — and in many ways, I did — but peace is not enough when survival begins to outweigh joy.

Coming back to the UK wasn’t part of some grand plan. It was simply time. I sold up, packed what little I had left, and stepped once again into uncertainty. Only this time, I was returning to my own country feeling more like a traveller than a local.

When I arrived back, I didn’t want to settle right away. The idea of staying still after years of open sky felt impossible. That’s when the boat came into the picture — a small river cruiser moored along a quiet canal. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine… despite the frustrations. The first boat I had bought turned out to be a scam; the seller had already sold it to someone else and vanished with my money. I wont go into this now but It took weeks of phone calls and the Police and bank’s help to get it resolved. Stressful doesn’t begin to cover it, but I learned something in that moment — sometimes starting over doesn’t wait until everything is neatly lined up. Sometimes, you just have to take the leap, even if the ground (or water) shifts beneath you.

Once aboard the new boat, I discovered a new rhythm. Mornings were misty and slow, the kind where time seems to hold its breath. The sound of ducks tapping against the hull, the gentle rock of water, the freedom to drift a little — it all gave me space to breathe again. It wasn’t the life I’d planned, but it was the life I needed. Simpler. Smaller. Quieter.

Starting over doesn’t always mean reinventing yourself. Sometimes it’s about returning — to who you were before the noise, before the struggle, before the fear. Portugal taught me resilience. The canal taught me stillness. And now, back on familiar soil, I’m learning balance — between movement and rest, between holding on and letting go.

Maybe that’s what starting over really means.

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There’s a particular stillness that comes just before dawn, when the mist drifts low around the Lorry and the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’ll be yet. That’s where The Roadstead began — in those quiet hours between movement and rest. I have lived in many different set ups, from a boat to a cabin I hand built in the woodland abroad, and many things in between. 

What began as a necessity due to financial and personal reasons has now turned into self-reliance and into a way of life — off-grid, barter-based, and shaped by the rhythm of weather and work. I no longer believe we need to work full time to live a life we can enjoy. Yes these days it is testing to say the least. With the ever increasing cost of living, and the threat of Digital ID etc looming, life is far from safe right now. 

But my plan is to share my journey, my life, and the ways I manage to live on as little as possible. I will state clearly here I am NOT vegan I cannot afford to be, I live off mostly vegetables but I do eat meat, mostly wild animals shot locally (not by me) and they would otherwise have gone to waste, This is a cheap way to get decent meals. 

I am also heavily into prepping, and survival skills. I want to know that if SHTF I will be ok for as long as possible. 

The Roadstead is a cross between life on the road and homesteading, I want to try to grow as much of my own food as I can in and on the lorry, and to eventually keep some chickens or quail and maybe some rabbits possibly. 

Here I share what I learn along the way: from managing off-grid systems and finding safe park-ups, to the quieter lessons of solitude, courage, and making a home from what you have which means being resourceful, and creative to make this place my home. 

The Roadstead is a place for anyone drawn to the edges — to slower living, wilder thinking, and honest stories from life on the margins. I live under the radar as much as possible, and well below the breadline, I earn very little and claim nothing, so life is constantly evolving. I do hope you enjoy my journey.