101 Things #37 - Follow that Nomad

When you reach the end of your long, and no doubt illustrious life, what will you look back on with pleasure? What will make you smile contentedly as you avert your eyes from the sight of your heirs scrabbling around in your desk for your will, the keys to your safe and the diamonds (Ah, you didn't think I knew about those, did you?).

I can tell you one thing that would give me no particular pleasure at all, an idea that I feel compelled to include in my anti-bucket list 101 Things I Refuse To Do Before I Die, and it is the odd suggestion to be found on the bucket list of the Aussie on the road website to

Meet real Gypsies.

Those old Romany caravans, eh? Trundling gracefully down quiet country lanes, each pulled by a gentle old horse, brightly painted and with buckets clanking where they are tied to the rear opening doors. A handful of ivory skinned, dark eyed folk walk alongside, singing songs in an ancient tongue, whittling carved sticks as they go, free and untrammelled by the cares of us urban wage-slaves. Fragrant smoke arises from their evening campfires as they tell time-worn tales and wide-eyed children look on.

Or perhaps you imagine a mysterious tent at the edge of a fairground. Mystic symbols cover the entrance and a sign proclaims it to be the haunt of a lady with the surname of Lee, seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of a long line of Lees,  who has supplied her knowledge of the arcane arts to the crowned heads of Europe and who, for just a few pieces of silver (OK, maybe a fiver) will consult the crystals, the cards and the spirits to give you knowledge about yourself that will transform your life.

Ah, we have a snag here. These are not the "real" Gypsies. Maybe they don't have them in Australia and distance creates romance. The caravan-dwellers of cherished memory have largely vanished. The fairground fortune-tellers are just people who travel with fairgrounds.

The real Gypsies live in poverty on the fringes of society in Eastern Europe, mainly. They suffer from discrimination at school and at work. They move wherever they can find temporary work and must face the hostility of the settled population, a hostility based on nationalism and religious differences. On a holiday that took us through Romania, Bulgaria and Serbia some years ago Mrs C. and I were struck by the frequency with which the local guides, without any prompting, assured our tour group that there was no Gypsy problem in their country. This came across that they were only too aware of problems and were keen we should not know about it or ask any embarrassing questions.

The idea therefore, to seek out some of these people so that a bucket list item can ticked off is rather repugnant. It smacks of going to the lunatic asylum to poke fun at the wretches in straight-jackets, as used to be the case two hundred years ago here in civilised England. No doubt selfies would be taken, earrings admired and little children patted on the head. And then it's on to the next bucket list objective and we can leave them behind to the mercy of the local authorities.

 It's interesting to ponder what our mates from Oz meant by "real". They did not have a suggestion to "Meet real Mexicans" (always look under the sombrero for the label) or "Hang out with genuine card-carrying Belgians" (Make sure they have hand-made lace shirts on).

Did they wish to warn off their readers about the large number of fake Gypsies, who, for a modest fee, will flash their white teeth whilst your cameras click away? Perhaps they mean the guys who used to go house to house selling clothes pegs (We don't see them any more)? Or maybe the louts, better known as Travellers, who swarm into our fields and public car parks, create incidents of threatening behaviour and dump mounds of rubbish behind when they get moved on by the police? I certainly wouldn't wish to meet any of those either.

Perhaps they should have added a warning "Ask to see a certificate of authenticity before meeting any one posing as a Gypsy. Beware of imitations. Your bucket list cannot be ticked until you have irrefutable proof of 100% Romany birth going back at least ten generations." However, let us not over-egg this pudding. I'm not going to go out of my way to meet any, and I'm sure none of them will be making tracks for beautiful Ruislip so they can shake me warmly by the hand whilst a friend whips out the camera, so let's just call it quits, OK?