When I lived in Middlesex in the late forties and early fifties, every Spring, about March, a wonderful cavalcade of the traditional caravans pulled by stocky ponies would wind its way through my small town and stop in the woods nearby. There must have been about twenty or so, all painted in bright colours and designs. They let down little steps, and you could see shiny brass things inside. As children we'd go and watch, they didn't chase us away. I was enchanted. They'd come round the doors selling handmade clothes-pegs, it was just like a children's storybook scene. My mum used to offer the lady at the door any serviceable clothes such as a warm coat and my old wellies, always very gratefully received. They only stayed a week or so. Sadly, after about the late fifties, they never reappeared, but I always remembered them. (My mum was Irish and I think she felt a kinship with them!)