With its beautiful open spaces and idyllic camping spots, Cornwall and Devon is campervan country.

Running free along country lanes, locals and tourists are parking up their vans wherever they fancy to enjoy the flexibility and novelty of sleeping and cooking on the open road.

Bored with television and wallpaper and needing a freedom hit, I decided to hitch a lift into van world to join the house-on-wheels revolution. An eBay whim and a trip to Bradford later and I'd tamed a beauty.

I got myself a 96 Boxer, which sounds exotic when written like that, but it's actually a 14-year-old Peugeot Boxer, although it says "Poogut Beer Ex" on the back.

It had been customised with two homemade windows from a retired caravan and a wood-burning stove, which appeared to have been a Calor gas bottle in a previous life. The stove had a squeaky door for inserting firewood and sprouted a snaking aluminium chimney behind the driver's seat up to the roof. It looked really cute and I couldn't wait to burn things.

Naturally my calculated "van checklist" of things like efficiency and reliability went up in smoke when I spotted the stove. My only concern was its position above the fuel tank with just a concrete slab to keep them apart. Hmm...

Six trips to Trago later, I'd constructed a double bed in the back from an old sponge from a sun lounger atop a wooden frame, with storage underneath for a portable camping stove, pots and pans, firewood, a fire extinguisher and asbestos pyjamas. Next I coated the walls and ceiling with a lick of varnish (which dripped all over the bed) and created some curtains using fleece blankets, Velcro and a staple gun. Finally, I hounded out the stink and hair from the previous owner's dog and was ready to live the dream. I imagined the fiery sunset and dramatic coastline I'd be watching by the evening.

After eventually coaxing the van to start and locating the soundtrack from Midnight Cowboy, I left a trail of diesel smog in my wake and galloped ... err, chugged... down route A-Three-Zero. Yee-ha.

The further south I ventured, the more vans I encountered. The land seemed wilder and offered adventurous overnight parking. I also noticed a kind of tribal culture among van owners: vans being representative of one's lifestyle. Surfers, for instance, have a liking for the older Volkswagen vans. As well as the usual surf stickers and roof racks, modifications might be added for the car park catwalk culture of places like Gwithian, Godrevy and Croyde.

The most extreme modification is known as the "rat-look" where the exterior is made to look as rough as possible by scratching off all the paint and encouraging the panels to rust.

The bigger vans like Mercedes and Transits are popular with full-timers: people who live in their vans for long periods (aka hippies, idealists and travellers). With homemade paint-jobs and padlocked doors, they are usually slow moving or stationary and crammed with everything necessary for a life on the road.

Then there's the proper ones: factory-made campervans and motorhomes, popular with all sorts, but representative of an organised, do-things-properly-or-show-off mindset. Young savvy types, older professionals, retired couples and tourists are the likely inhabitants. Varying in size and cost, these vans are usually just a couch-roll away from the comfort and luxury of suburbia.

I'm not sure which tribe I fitted into with my wood-burning Poogut Beer Ex, but it didn't matter because the first rule of van club is to get a van. The flashes and waves from other vans confirmed my membership into van club —although I did have a flat tyre.

In my trusty-ish got-me-there-eventually van, I reached my destination (marked on the map with a biro cross) and faced the first dilemma of campervan life: where to park up for the night. There are many campsites offering facilities for campervans around the South West, but I wanted to be out there, free as a weed on a cliff top. It took a while because many of the best spots were taken and I didn't want neighbours — not in the wild. Ten pounds of diesel later, I found a spot on some high cliffs north of Hayle. this was followed by another 20 minutes positioning my van, so I could see the sea from the side window.

Minutes after parking up and making a cup of tea on my portable camping stove, the stormiest night in July turned up. And as the rain heckled me through the tinny panels and the wind gently rocked the suspension, I felt at one with nature. However, this wasn't the case when I was trying to sleep a few hours later. In fact it was a sleepless night and the storm showed no signs of letting up as daylight arrived.

Tired, but alive, I sizzled bacon and drank tea while watching the stormy morning sea. I felt inspired and grabbed a pen and some paper, but before I started my masterpiece, I noticed a drip-drip coming from the back doors and then another from the side door and — like the scrapyard that broke the campervan's back — I found a leak coming from the chimney of my beloved stove.

And that is how my first van expedition ended: a quest to find and plug leaks on a stormy cliff top became the day's obsession. After running out of bacon and wondering what was happening in Big Brother, I limped home after 24 hours. Passing other vans snuggled tight in lay-bys and sandy car parks, I felt inspired by the freedom and adventure offered by owning a campervan in Cornwall and couldn't wait for my next watertight adventure.