So when we started trying out vanlife we sat in lay-bys eating supermarket sandwiches, watching Netflix on my phone, wondering if this was actually the freedom we’d signed up for or just expensive isolation with a better view. This is part of what we call Living The Vanlife Real Stories.
Then one night in the Cairngorms, a bloke knocked on our door. He’d seen my bike rack and wanted to know where the good trails were. We ended up having a brew together. Turned out he’d been full-timing for two years. Knew all the spots. All the tricks. Had a whole community of vanlife friends.
He invited us to a meet-up the following week. Twenty vans in a field in Perthshire. Campfire. Music. Stories. People who understood exactly why we wanted to be part of this life.
That night changed everything.
Here’s what UK vanlife community actually looks like — beyond the Instagram feeds and hashtag nonsense.
The Reality of UK Vanlife Community
What people think it is:
- Constant gatherings at stunning locations
- Instant friendships with attractive people
- Coffee by the beach every morning with your van neighbours
- A tight-knit tribe all travelling together
What it actually is:
- Occasional chance meetings in car parks
- Awkward waves to other vans, wondering if you should say hello
- Long periods alone, by choice or circumstance
- A loosely connected network that ebbs and flows
- Seasonal patterns where you see the same faces
- Online groups that are more active than real-world meetings
Both versions exist. But the reality is messier, less photogenic, and somehow more meaningful than the curated version.
Types of UK Vanlifers You’ll Meet
The community isn’t homogeneous. It’s a weird mix of people who’ve chosen alternative lifestyles for completely different reasons.
The Digital Nomads
Usually under 35, working remotely, decent vans with good solar setups. They’re chasing 4G signal more than sunsets.
We met Sarah in the Lake District. She’d been living in her Transporter for eighteen months, working in web design. Parked near libraries and cafes for WiFi. Earned more than I did in my old office job. Used vanlife to save money while seeing the country.
Her reality: Brilliant when the sun’s out. Miserable when it’s pissing down and she’s got a deadline and her mobile hotspot keeps dropping.
The Retirees
Sold the house, bought a motorhome, spending their kids’ inheritance travelling the UK.
John and Margaret in their Autotrail. Met them in Cornwall. They’d been touring for three years. Knew every good pub, every free parking spot, every coastal walk worth doing.
Their wisdom: “We spent forty years waiting for retirement. Now we’re doing what we should’ve done earlier. Don’t wait.”
Living the Vanlife : Real Stories has taught us that community can take many forms, often surprising and always enriching.
They’d park up for weeks in one spot, become part of the local community, then move on. Slower, more settled vanlife.
The Seasonal Workers
Follow the work. Fruit picking, festival season, winter ski resorts. Live in their vans because accommodation would eat their wages.
Met a crew of them in Wales during lambing season. Living in battered old vans that barely ran but cost them nothing. They weren’t doing vanlife for Instagram. They were doing it because rent is insane and this way they could save money.
Respect: They’re the ones keeping the dream alive for those of us with less money. No fancy conversions. Just making it work.
The Weekenders
Nine-to-five during the week, van escapees on weekends. Biggest growing segment of UK vanlife.
They’re not full-timers but they’re part of the community. Some of the best advice I’ve gotten has been from weekenders who’ve refined their setup through years of trial and error.
The Hardcore Off-Gridders
Living completely off-grid. No job, no fixed plans. Hunting, foraging, minimal consumption.
Through Living The Vanlife Real Stories, we’ve learned that community can take many forms, often surprising and always enriching.
I’ve met maybe three people actually living this way. It’s much rarer than Instagram suggests. And it’s bloody hard work.
One guy in the Highlands had been doing it for five years. Most knowledgeable person about wild camping I’ve ever met. Also hadn’t spoken to his family in three years. That lifestyle has costs.
The Families
Parents with kids, homeschooling on the road. Absolute respect for them because it’s ten times harder with children.
Met a family in Devon with three kids under ten. Their van was organised chaos. Educational trips disguised as adventures. The kids were confident, capable, and knew more about British wildlife than I did.
Mum’s honesty: “Some days are magical. Some days I’m hiding in the front seat eating chocolate while they fight. Just like normal parenting but in smaller space.”
The Escape Artists
Running from something. Bad breakup, job burnout, family drama, debt, trauma.
You can usually tell. They’re the ones who seem relieved rather than excited. Who don’t want to talk about their past. Who are literally using vanlife as escape velocity from their old life.
I was one of these. My van was my escape pod from a life I’d built but didn’t want. Took me a year to admit that to anyone.
Where the UK Vanlife Community Actually Gathers
The Unofficial Spots
These are the places where you’ll consistently find other vans. Not organised meets. Just natural gathering spots.
Scottish Highlands (April-October):
- Glen Nevis car park
- Applecross peninsula
- Glenelg
- North Coast 500 route (too many vans now, honestly)
You’ll see the same faces cycling through. Quick chats while making breakfast. Shared intel about where the midges are bad.
Cornwall (year-round, but manic in summer):
- Sennen Cove
- Prussia Cove
- Various clifftop car parks (until you get moved on)
Surf culture overlaps heavily with vanlife here. Everyone’s chasing waves and comparing wetsuit brands.
Lake District (spring and autumn):
- Great Langdale
- Borrowdale
- Newlands Valley
Walking and climbing crowd. More serious outdoors people. Less Instagram, more muddy boots and Ordnance Survey maps.
Pembrokeshire Coast:
- Freshwater West
- Broad Haven
- Whitesands
Quiet in winter, perfect for escaping crowds. Wind will blow your van over but the beaches are stunning.
North York Moors:
- Hutton-le-Hole
- Rosedale Abbey
- Various moorland car parks
Underrated. Fewer vans, beautiful landscapes, friendly locals who are used to campers.
Organised Meets and Gatherings
Vanfest (May, usually Malvern):
- Biggest UK vanlife gathering
- 1,000+ vans
- Trade stands, talks, workshops
- Fun but very commercial now
- £40-£80 ticket depending on days
I went twice. First time was brilliant. Second time felt too corporate. But if you’re new to vanlife, it’s worth going once just to see the variety of builds and meet loads of people.
Busfest (various locations):
- VW-focused but everyone’s welcome
- Smaller, more community-focused than Vanfest
- Better vibe in my opinion
- £30-£50 entry
Wild camping meets (informal, organised through Facebook):
- Someone posts a location
- 10-30 vans show up
- Campfire, shared food, stories
- No tickets, no organisation, pure community
These are my favourite. Raw vanlife. Everyone brings firewood and something to share. I’ve met my best vanlife friends at these.
Regional meets:
- Scottish Vanlife groups
- Cornish Van Dwellers
- Peak District Van Camping
- Various regional Facebook groups
Usually monthly or quarterly meet-ups. Pub gardens, country parks, someone’s farm. Low-key, friendly, free.
The Unwritten Rules of Van Spots
When you rock up somewhere and there’s already vans:
Do:
- Park at a respectful distance (at least 20-30 metres unless it’s a tight spot)
- Wave or nod acknowledgment
- Be quiet after 10pm
- Take your rubbish with you
- Share knowledge if asked (good walks, where to get water, etc.)
- Defend the spot together if someone’s causing trouble
Don’t:
- Park right next to someone when there’s loads of space (creepy)
- Loud music late at night
- Generator use unless unavoidable (and never overnight)
- Leave a mess
- Bring the spot to wider attention (social media “spot burning”)
- Assume everyone wants to be social (some people want solitude)
The morning acknowledgment:
If you’re both making coffee at the same time, a “Morning, nice spot” is standard. If they want to chat, they’ll continue the conversation. If they don’t, they’ll give a friendly response and go back to their van.
Read the room. Some people are here to get away from people.
Stories from the Road: The Good, the Bad, the Real
The Magic Moments
Glen Etive, 2am, March 2023:
Parked alone by the river. Clear sky. Aurora forecast was promising. Set my alarm for 2am.
Woke up. Stepped outside. And there it was. Northern Lights dancing above Glen Etive. Green ribbons across the sky. Just me and the Wife, the river, the mountains, and this impossible natural light show.
No photo captures that. No Instagram post conveys what it felt like. Just pure, solitary awe.
Those moments? That’s why we do this.
Random kindness, Scottish Borders:
My clutch went in the middle of nowhere. I was parked in a lay-by, googling mechanics, dreading the cost.
A farmer stopped. Asked if I was okay. I explained the situation.
He hitched my van to his tractor and towed me three miles to his farm. Let me park in his yard for four days while I waited for parts. Invited me in for dinner with his family. Refused payment.
“That’s what neighbours do,” he said.
I wasn’t even his neighbour. I was just someone broken down on his road.
Community saves the day, Wales:
Parked in a Tesco car park. Came back to find someone had reversed into my van. Proper damage. And they’d driven off.
But another vanlifer had seen it. Taken photos. Got the reg plate. Left a note on my windscreen with all the details and his phone number as witness.
Didn’t know him. Never saw him again. But that act of community saved me £1,200 in excess on insurance.
The comparison trap:
Everyone’s Instagram shows sunrise at stunning locations. Nobody posts the Tuesday afternoon in a retail park car park while it pisses down and you’re doing admin on your laptop.
I’ve had weeks where I haven’t spoken to another human beyond “contactless please” at shop checkouts.
Freedom is brilliant. But loneliness is the price you sometimes pay for it.
When the community isn’t there:
You break down. Or get sick. Or just need help. And you’re alone in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere with no signal and no nearby friends.
I’ve been there. Food poisoning in the Highlands. Couldn’t drive. Could barely move. Took me three days to feel human again. I could’ve died and nobody would’ve noticed for a week.
The hard truth: Vanlife isolation is real. Social media shows the highlights. They don’t show the 2am existential crises or the moments you regret this choice.
The Difficult Conversations
Mental health in a metal box:
Depression doesn’t care that you’re living your dream. Anxiety doesn’t stop at the van door.
I met someone in Wales who’d started vanlife to escape anxiety. Turned out being alone in a van with no structure or routine made it worse. They ended up moving back into a flat after six months.
This isn’t a magic cure for mental health issues. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it makes things harder.
Relationships under pressure:
Couples vanlife is romanticised. The reality is that you’re in a tiny space together 24/7.
Fortunately my Wife and I are adept at ignoring one anothers annoying habits , well most of the time.
I’ve watched couples implode on the road. Arguments over navigation. Over whose turn it is to empty the toilet. Over nothing and everything because you can’t get space from each other.
I’ve also watched couples become stronger because they’re forced to communicate and compromise constantly.
It’s a pressure test. You’ll find out fast if your relationship works.
The privilege question:
Let’s be honest. Most UK vanlifers have choices. We’re not homeless. We’re not truly living on the edge.
We’re often educated, middle-class people cosplaying poverty while having backup plans and family safety nets.
Someone once called me out on this. Said my “vanlife journey” was bullshit because I could always go back to my house if things got hard.
They were right. And it was uncomfortable to admit.
Real poverty isn’t instagrammable. Real housing insecurity isn’t a lifestyle choice.
Most of us need to check our privilege.
Finding Your People: Practical Community Building
Online Communities (The Gateway)
Facebook groups:
- UK Vanlife and Stealth Camping (40k+ members)
- Scottish Wild Camping (20k+)
- Van Conversion Solutions UK (35k+)
- Regional groups for your area
What they’re good for:
- Asking questions
- Finding meet-ups
- Buying/selling gear
- Spot recommendations
- Weather warnings
- Safety alerts
What they’re terrible for:
- Actually making friends (online isn’t real connection)
- Comparison culture (everyone’s flex posting)
- Drama (always someone arguing about legality of wild camping)
Use them as tools. Not as substitutes for real community.
Instagram:
Look, I’m conflicted about Instagram and vanlife. It’s created impossible standards and turned wild spots into influencer car parks.
But it’s also how I found some of my vanlife friends. Through comments. Through DMs. Through recognising usernames and then meeting them in real life.
Just… be real on there. Post the messy stuff. The rain days. The failures. People connect with honesty, not perfection.
Real-World Connection Tips
The campfire law:
If you’ve got a campfire going and there’s other vans nearby, they’re welcome to join. That’s the unspoken rule.
I’ve met dozens of people this way. Fire is magnetic. People wander over with a beer or a chair. Suddenly you’re having deep conversations with strangers about why we all chose this life.
The breakdown bond:
Help someone whose van is broken. Jump-start them. Tow them. Share your tools.
Those connections last. You’ve proven you’re solid. That’s currency in this community.
Regular spots:
If you return to the same spots seasonally, you’ll start seeing familiar faces. That familiarity builds community over time.
I see the same people in Scotland every summer. We don’t keep in touch between. But when we meet again, it’s like coming home.
Skill sharing:
Got a skill? Offer it. I can fix bike mechanicals. I’ve built community by helping people sort their gears in car parks.
Others share electrical knowledge, cooking skills, local knowledge, wild swimming spots.
Contributing builds connection.
The Vanlife Friend Test
You know you’ve made a real vanlife friend when:
- You’ll share your secret parking spots with them
- You’re comfortable saying “I’m having a shit day and need space”
- They’ve seen your van when it’s a complete mess
- You’ve solved problems together (breakdowns, parking tickets, finding water)
- You know their real story, not just their Instagram version
- You can sit in comfortable silence together
- They’ve got your back when things go wrong
I’ve got maybe five people who pass that test. That’s enough.
Seasonal Rhythms of UK Vanlife
Summer (June-August): The Chaos
Where everyone is: Cornwall, Scottish Highlands, Lake District, Welsh coast
The reality: Overcrowded. Wild camping spots burnt. Locals getting fed up. Parking restrictions increasing.
Community vibe: Busy. Lots of weekend warriors and holiday vanners. Harder to find solitude but easy to meet people.
My strategy: Avoid the honey pots. Head to less obvious places. North York Moors, Scottish Borders, mid-Wales.
Autumn (September-October): The Sweet Spot
Where to be: Peak District, Scottish Highlands (September), Northumberland, anywhere with trees
Why it’s best: Crowds thin. Weather’s still decent. Landscapes are stunning. Locals are friendlier again.
Community vibe: More full-timers, fewer tourists. Better quality interactions.
This is my favourite time on the road. Everything feels possible. The summer burnout hasn’t hit yet.
Winter (November-March): The Test
Where the hardcore go: Scotland (if you’re brave), Cornwall and Devon (milder), Spanish coast (if you can afford to escape)
Who’s left: Full-timers, retirees, people with no other option, and the stubborn ones who refuse to stop.
Community vibe: Tighter. You’re all surviving together. More supportive. More honest.
The reality check: UK winter vanlife is brutal. It’s dark by 4pm. It’s cold. It’s wet. Your van becomes very small.
But there’s something special about the people still doing it in January. They’re committed. They’re real.
Spring (April-May): The Renewal
Where to emerge: Scotland (as the snow clears), anywhere with wildflowers, the coast
Energy: Optimistic. People have survived winter and feel victorious. New vanners are arriving for their first season.
Community vibe: Welcoming. Experienced people helping newbies. Shared relief that winter’s over.
This is when I remember why I chose this life.
The Dark Side Nobody Posts
Vanlife Burnout
It’s real. Im nowhere near full time yet but i find it totally exhausting. Think im still settling into the idea of having the freedom but not quite got to grips with slowing things down to take it all in.
Exhausted from:
- Never having a fixed address
- Constantly moving
- Always planning where to park
- Living in 10 square metres
- Never having privacy
- Bad sleep
- Living in public view
- The admin (mail forwarding, insurance, MOT, etc.)
Some people quit vanlife entirely from burnout. It’s not failure. It’s just recognising this life isn’t forever for everyone.
The Instagram Lie
Vanlife influencers make money from sponsorships and affiliate links by showing paradise.
The reality behind those shots:
- Arrived at 11pm, parked sketchy
- Up at 5am for sunrise photo
- Took 50 shots to get the one perfect image
- Immediately drove away because the spot was actually terrible
- Spent next six hours in a supermarket car park editing photos
I know someone who was “sponsored” by a gear company. They got about £200 worth of free stuff and had to post constantly about it. Wasn’t worth the pressure.
The question to ask: Are they showing vanlife or selling vanlife fantasy?
When Community Turns Toxic
Not everyone in vanlife is sound. You’ll meet:
The freeloaders: Who take knowledge, help, resources but never contribute back.
The entitled: Who think wild camping is their right and get aggressive about access.
The spot burners: Who post secret locations to their 50k followers and ruin them.
The preachers: Who’ve been doing it for six months and now think they’re experts telling everyone else they’re doing it wrong.
The sketchy ones: Occasionally you meet people who make you uncomfortable. Trust that feeling.
I’ve had to cut people off. Set boundaries. Leave situations that felt wrong.
Community doesn’t mean you have to accept everyone.
The Question Everyone Asks: Is It Worth It?
After four van builds and a lot of nights on the road, heres my take on it.
Worth it when:
- You wake up somewhere stunning
- You meet someone and have a real, unfiltered conversation
- You successfully park somewhere perfect for free
- You’re exactly where you want to be with total flexibility
- You’ve solved a problem with duct tape and ingenuity
- You’re reading in bed while rain hammers the roof and you’re cosy
- You’ve got a community moment that reminds you why you chose this
Not worth it when:
- You’re parked in a retail park at 2am unable to sleep because of street lights
- Your van’s broken down and you can’t afford repairs
- You’re lonely and isolated with no one to call
- You’re doing it for Instagram validation rather than actual life satisfaction
- It’s January and you’re freezing and questioning everything
- You realise you’re spending more time finding places to park than actually enjoying those places
The truth: It’s neither paradise nor hell. It’s a daily choice with trade-offs.
Some days the freedom is intoxicating. Some days you’d trade it all for a hot bath and your own front door.
Where the UK Vanlife Community Is Heading
Increasing restrictions: Councils are cracking down. More parking bans. More enforcement. The golden age of easy UK vanlife might be ending.
Rising costs: Fuel, insurance, diesel heaters, solar, everything’s more expensive. Vanlife is becoming less accessible.
More weekend warriors, fewer full-timers: Economic reality. Most people can’t afford to not work, and remote work isn’t as flexible post-COVID as it seemed.
Better infrastructure: More official aires and campsites with facilities. Double-edged sword. Costs money but might preserve access.
Aging demographic: More retirees, fewer young people (who can’t afford the van in the first place).
Community splitting: The Instagram vanlifers vs the actual vanlifers. Two different worlds now.
My prediction: UK vanlife will become more expensive, more restricted, and more professionalised. The scrappy DIY era is fading. But the core community — the people actually living it — will remain.
My Advice for Finding Your Community
Show up: Online communities don’t replace real faces around a campfire.
Be genuine: People smell bullshit. Be honest about your struggles as well as your highlights.
Contribute: Share knowledge. Help others. Build the community you want to be part of.
Give it time: You won’t find your people immediately. I was three months solo before I found my first real connection.
Accept loneliness: Sometimes you’ll be alone. That’s okay. Solitude isn’t failure.
Trust your instincts: Not everyone deserves your trust or friendship. Be selective.
Lower your expectations: Most interactions are brief. Deep friendships are rare. That’s normal.
Stay humble: However long you’ve been doing this, someone’s been doing it longer and knows more.
The Stories Worth Telling
There’s a story I return to when I’m questioning this life.
I was parked in the Cairngorms. Another van pulled up. Older couple. They made tea. Invited me over.
Turned out they’d been married forty years. Had just sold everything to travel in their van.
“Why now?” I asked.
The husband got quiet. Then said: “My best mate died last year. Sixty-two. Spent his whole life planning for retirement. Booked a trip around Scotland for his retirement month. Had a heart attack two weeks before he was meant to leave.”
His wife took over: “We realised we were doing the same thing. Waiting for permission to live. So we stopped waiting.”
We sat there, three people in vans in the Scottish mountains, drinking tea, talking about mortality and freedom and why we choose what we choose.
That’s the community.
Not the Instagram posts. Not the festivals. Not the hashtags.
The real moments. The real conversations. The real recognition that we’re all trying to figure out how to live before we die.
That’s worth everything.
Final Thoughts
UK vanlife community isn’t perfect. It’s fragmented, complicated, sometimes disappointing.
But it’s also some of the most genuine human connection I’ve experienced.
Because we’ve all chosen something different. Something difficult. Something that most people don’t understand.
And when you meet someone else who gets it — who understands why you’d rather be in a cold van than a warm house — that recognition is profound.
You don’t need a huge community. You need a real one.
Find your people. Build your tribe. Contribute more than you take.
And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll have your own stories worth telling.
The door’s open. The fire’s going. There’s space around it.
Come find us.
My journey towards full time vanlife is just at the beginning so as i learn, i’ll pass whatever i learn along the way.
