When construction finally began

After buying the van, I had the feeling that the hardest part was already behind me. Now all that was left was to start the build.

On the first day, I showed it to my kids. They hadn't seen it yet. Together we started stripping out everything that was left of the old work vehicle: we removed the plastic panels, took out the door fittings and got rid of anything that was no longer needed.

Then we swept out the interior, vacuumed it, cleaned all the bodywork and completely degreased the shell. Only then could the real work begin.

Desde fuera parecía algo sencillo.

In reality, almost everything I was going to do over the following months was completely new to me.

The next day I started marking out the windows.

That's when I realised that converting a motorhome had nothing to do with building a house.

In a house, everything is easy: you have straight walls, a level and a tape measure.

Here it was completely different.

The windows had rounded corners, so I had to respect the mounting edge, the shape of the bodywork, and check every measurement several times.

I grabbed the level and started marking out the windows the way I'd always done on my previous projects.

But something very strange happened.

According to the level, everything was perfect.

And yet, to the naked eye, the marks looked crooked.

I measured again and again without understanding where the mistake was.

Until suddenly I realised.

I was working outside, in a car park next to the house. The ground had a slight slope, and the van was tilted too.

The problem wasn't the measuring.

It was the ground.

I stopped using the level as a reference and started measuring all the distances using the bodywork's original ridge lines as a guide.

Only then did I manage to get a correct template.

Then came the moment I was most afraid of.

I picked up the angle grinder.

And a very simple thought came to me.

I was forty-six years old.

I had built a house.

I had done a lot of renovations.

I had worked with wood, electrics and plumbing.

But I had never cut into a vehicle's bodywork before.

I hadn't even imagined that one day I'd have to cut a hole in my own van.

A mistake could cost me dearly.

Just a few millimetres were enough to ruin the whole panel.

For a few seconds I stood still, staring at the marks.

Then I made the first cut.

The metal cut much more easily than I expected.

But when I offered up the window, I found I still had to correct a few millimetres. I carefully filed the edges, removed the small imperfections and fitted the window again.

This time it fitted perfectly.

No gaps.

No distortion.

I think it was one of the happiest moments of the whole build.

I felt enormous relief.

An almost childlike joy.

The first window was installed.

The step I was most afraid of was already behind me.

From then on, everything started to flow much more smoothly.

Then came the rest of the windows and, later, the roof skylights.

But then another worry appeared.

It was no longer about cutting the panel.

It was about making sure everything was perfectly sealed and that water would never get in when it rained.

That's why I didn't skimp on the sealant.

I sealed every joint very carefully, checked every detail several times and waited for the first rainy day.

Not a single drop got in.

That was another great relief.

Then I remembered that, whenever I saw other motorhomes, I always asked myself the same question:

"How on earth do they manage to fit the windows and skylights?"

It had always seemed like something extremely complicated to me.

Over time I understood that the hardest part wasn't cutting the panel.

The hardest part was daring to make the first cut.

After that, together with my children, we completely insulated the van. We bought some special rollers to press the insulation down and, when we finished, we started building the floor.

I went to Leroy Merlin, bought the boards, cut them to size and laid them over the insulation.

That's when another small change happened.

Just a few days earlier, in front of me there had been just a plain work van.

Now it already had windows, skylights, insulation and a real floor.

Every time I got in, I stopped seeing an empty vehicle.

That feeling reminded me a lot of building a house.

At first there are only bare walls.

Then the windows appear, the floor, the finished walls... and suddenly you feel that it won't be long before you see it finished.

With the motorhome, exactly the same thing happened.

At that point I still wasn't aware of all the work that lay ahead.

I didn't know how many hours I'd spend on the furniture, the electrical installation, the water system and dozens of small details I hadn't even thought of yet.

Nor did I imagine that later on I'd have to rethink many decisions.

For example, I designed the interior exactly as I saw it on YouTube. I built lots of drawers and small cupboards because almost everyone kept saying you can never have too much storage space.

Only years later, when LSR365 (Libertad Sobre Ruedas) was born, did I understand that a motorhome to live in and a motorhome meant for rental are two completely different concepts.

But at that time I still didn't have that experience.

I was simply building the motorhome I had pictured in my head.

I looked at the van once more and thought:

"Little by little, my first motorhome was coming to life."

In the next chapter I talk about how I tackled the furniture design and the first mistakes I made building the interior, mistakes that years later ended up helping me create better motorhomes for LSR365 (Libertad Sobre Ruedas).

If you've landed directly on this chapter from Google or an AI search engine, you can start from the full story of how LSR365 was born and follow the whole evolution of the project from the beginning.