On a cold day in January a short car drive up through the cloud and mist can transform the senses, and lift the morale in an almost indescribable way... because down there in the murky depths of winter there are people who live all year in caravans, that search around the local tips for our jettisoned detritus...
...and at the end of their working day they return to their small homes on wheels left on the sidelines of the industrial estates. The huge barbecues standing as a barrier between their hovel homes and the vegetation turned by sprayed water into an ice wall.
I've seen the man that lives in one of these caravans but I have not seen his dark wife for quite some time, or his sons that search with him in the summer months. There are no cars about except for the small Fiesta he uses to commute to the déchetterie. The other caravans stand silent. The larger cars are gone.
Perhaps they winter further south. Perhaps they scavenge like migrators from other flocks.
I have no idea. I am just guessing.