Brave Sir John

The Enchanted Legend of Sir John of Milford and the Indium Chariot

Long ago, in the whimsical shire of Stafford, where the trees whispered secrets and the postmen wore shorts all year round, there lived a man like no other. A man of gadgets, ginger elixirs, and great purpose. His name? Sir John of Milford — master of flight, roamer of roads, wielder of Wi-Fi, and, according to legend, the only man in Stafford who could set up a HomePod in under 60 seconds without consulting a YouTube tutorial.

Sir John resided in a fine keep nestled on the Green of Milford. It was a house of harmony, where tropical fish gently bubbled in magical aquariums, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the occasional puff of chutney-scented smoke. He lived among the glowing orbs of his Apple HomePods, and he wore upon his wrist the Timepiece of Series Six, an enchanted Apple Watch that could summon maps, measure heartbeats, and occasionally yell at him to “STAND UP.”

But what truly set Sir John apart from all others was his majestic steed — not a horse, nor a dragon, but a gleaming Indium Grey Campervan with orange trim so vivid, it was said to guide lost travellers home like a lighthouse in a Cornish storm. Her name? Vanilla — though she was anything but plain.

Vanilla was no ordinary chariot. She was powered by diesel and dreams. With her Cadac grill, laser projector, and Thetford loo, she could conquer any land — from the cliffs of Tintagel to the chip shops of Looe. Her roof rose like the wings of a phoenix, revealing a soft nest of Duvalay foam and fairy lights that glowed like a unicorn’s yawn.

By Sir John’s side — or rather, above — flew his loyal fleet: the Drones of Nickolls. These weren’t just machines; they were enchanted birds forged in the realm of DJI. There was:

• Nemesis, the wise and powerful Mavic 2 Pro, who once flew through a thunderstorm just to get the perfect cinematic sunrise over Boscastle.

• Zoom, the nimble Mini 4 Pro, quick as a sneeze and twice as surprising.

• Twitch, the tiny Spark, often mistaken for a mechanical pixie by villagers.

• And Sneaker, the elusive Neo, named for its stealthy ways and tendency to disappear behind trees mid-flight like a mischievous woodland spirit.

Each drone bore its own soul, and together they captured moments of beauty: ancient ruins basking in golden dusk, mountains curled in morning mist, and once — legend has it — a squirrel giving a thumbs up.

The Summoning of the Great Quest

One fateful dawn, as dew glittered on the grass like spilled stars and the kettle whistled with the urgency of a bard’s lute solo, a strange occurrence happened. Vanilla, parked in her sacred resting place beside the ancient Planter of Moss and Compost, began to hum. The projector flared to life, and across the screen appeared a face — part man, part council official.

It was The Keeper of the Bins, a mythical figure responsible for refuse and riddles.

“Sir John,” he boomed, “the Realm is in peril. A darkness spreads from the east — from the cursed land of Norton Canes. The Toll Lord, Sir Nigel, has enchanted the skies. No drone may fly. No ginger shot may fizz. Even Tesco Click & Collect falters. You must ride, noble John. You must restore the balance.”

And with that, the screen fizzled into the static of forgotten VHS tapes.

Sir John stood still for but a moment, brow furrowed in noble concentration (and slight annoyance that bin day was cancelled). He finished his ginger shot, armed himself with a freshly charged battery pack, and summoned Vanilla with a double tap on his enchanted iPhone.

The Trials of the Traveller

Thus began the Quest of the Orange-Trimmed Chariot.

Sir John journeyed far and wide:

• Through the Marshes of Muck and Mocha, where Costa machines were sentient and grumpy.

• Over the Hills of FORS Compliance, guarded by bearded trolls who asked for paperwork in triplicate.

• And into the Forest of Litchi, where flight plans were forged in a secret app only the wise could understand.

He braved the Vale of Dodgy Signal, where Siri would abandon him mid-sentence. He feasted on enchanted flapjack gifted by the Woodland Witches of Waitrose. He dodged speed bumps so mighty they once took out an entire caravan club from Telford.

Along the way, he encountered fellow adventurers:

• Bradders of the Beard, a fellow knight who spoke only in GIFs.

• Simon the Slightly Confused, who once tried to plug a HomePod into a cow.

• And the legendary warrior Guy of the Gimbal, who could balance a camera on anything — including a blancmange.

They joined him, for a time, around campfires, sharing tales of Route 66, of cider brewed by the moonlight at Healey’s Farm, and of the wild beast known as “the Festival Toilets of Camperjam.”

The Battle for the Skies

Finally, Sir John reached the M6 Toll Fortress, its gates guarded by cones that stretched for miles and a queue of wagons cursed to wait forever.

There, on a platform made of leftover tarmac and regret, stood Sir Nigel, dark wizard of bureaucracy, clutching a clipboard enchanted with red tape.

“You shall not pass!” bellowed Nigel, unleashing his final weapon — the No-Drone Zone of Doom, a swirling vortex of anti-fun.

But Sir John was ready.

He called upon his fleet. Nemesis soared high, cutting through the clouds with a triumphant beep-beep. Zoom performed aerial ballet. Twitch distracted the guards by buzzing like an angry hornet. Sneaker — in full stealth mode — dropped the ultimate payload: a vinyl sticker, crafted by Cricut, bearing the sacred motto:

“Fly Me to the Zoom.”

The spell broke. The skies cleared. The ban was lifted. Drone footage resumed.

Sir Nigel vanished in a puff of exhaust and petty complaints. The people rejoiced. Ice cream vans played Eurythmics. Vanilla’s orange trim shimmered like phoenix feathers.

The Homecoming

Sir John returned to Milford a hero. The projector played a triumphant loop of his journey, narrated by a HomePod in Brian Blessed’s voice. He updated johnsdrones.net with aerial glory, and parked Vanilla beneath a banner that read:

“He Came. He Saw. He Captured It in 4K.”

To this day, travellers come from far and wide — not to see the castle, or the ruins, or even the squirrel — but to catch a glimpse of the Legendary Knight of the Campervan, the man who took to the skies, tackled potholes, and made chutney that could make grown men weep.

He still roams, when the call of adventure whispers through the air.

And if you listen closely, just after sunset, you might hear the hum of a drone, the clink of a YETI tumbler, and a faint but noble phrase echoing through the pop-top…

“Alexa, turn on campervan mode.”

THE END.

Or rather…

TO BE CONTINUED…