I like that term, trailer trash, an American expression describing folk who live in caravans. The user has a good idea of what it means - people who, for reasons never questioned, end up at the bottom rung of the housing ladder. A judgement made in ignorance by the sort of person who makes it. Having lived in a caravan for more than thirty years, I feel blessed to be among that trash.

As long as my parents lived in Swanage, I had a home. The house, a tight fit for six, became very empty when we children left so, in 1977, they moved away, down-sizing. Both were from army families, a fixed home an expendable luxury. Farnham, where they settled, was 90 miles away from Swanage, not far from Sandhurst, the military academy, and Aldershot, where my father enjoyed the army library. The town had personal resonance; they had married there and relations lived nearby. Others like them retired to that area. In the shops, the library, they would chance on folk last met, in the 1930s, in Poona, Quetta, Meerut. London, which everyone passed through and where several of their grandchildren lived, was close. They were happy.

But Purbeck remained my now-houseless home. The region was beautiful, in the middle of the south coast, a couple of hours from London. Housing had been cheap; in the 1950s, most who lived there worked there. Increasing mechanisation of the main occupations – farming, fishing, quarrying, clay mining – reduced the labour requirements. Since few working folk had cars, many shifted to towns in search of employment. Better-off people, living and working in big cities, dreamed of a country life. They had cars, bought up empty cottages for holiday homes with a view to retirement. With this new demand, prices soared. With neither fortune nor income enough to compete, it was necessary to improvise.

I tended to return from India in spring. That was the peak tourist season. Every vacant house or flat could command a high premium. The Grosvenor Hotel, in Swanage, a major employer between May and September, provided very basic accommodation for its workers; I could sign on as a waiter. The men's quarters were spread along an upstairs corridor - Death Row, we called it - with windows giving onto the road. Food was free, work hours inconvenient. Save one day off a week, waiters served three meals and were free only during the gaps in between.

More often I worked at my friend, Trev's quarry polishing or sawing stone. One summer, he planned to rent a derelict cottage and suggested I use it while he was doing it up' there was some problem with the lease, so he never signed it. Already installed, I stayed there for a year only leaving to return to India. No one questioned my presence. Later, there was an old caravan in the quarry, acquired for an office but never used. In short, housing was a regular worry but something always turned up.