At his backcountry stead — a scattering of squat structures are huddled at the base of a valley behind suburban Montara — peacocks exchange mating calls from rickety rooftops while the dogs take turns chasing the chickens.
Adorned with flecks of classic Gypsy attire — a tattered scarf around his neck, a tilted wool beret and gold hoop earrings — Henry strolls down a muddy road to his tented workshop situated amid long grasses next to a creek bed.
  
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The carriage belonged to his father, an “eccentric” English businessman who took to the road in the 1920s, gallivanting through Europe with a woman Henry isn’t convinced was not a descendent of pureblood Gypsies.
“His enthusiasm (for English Gypsy wagons) rubbed off on me,” Henry says, leaning against his father’s prized possession.
Henry’s plans to restore the dusty wagon — basically a small living room propped on wooden wheels — are overshadowed, at least for the moment, by a glossy Victorian counterpart stationed next to it.
It’s a 19th century “open lot” covered caravan that looks more like an exotic relative of a Monarch butterfly than mobile shelter for a family of nomads.
In the past month, Henry’s business has taken a dive, allowing the craftsman an opportunity to confront his lifelong ambition; it’s been sitting in his workshop for more than 30 years.
“I’ve been intending to do this stuff forever, but now is the time,” he said. “I’m almost 60.”
So far he’s revarnished the different components of the open lot — the pullout tabletop, the iron stove and the glass cabinets — re-roofed it, and laid fresh floorboards, with the intention to preserve the aesthetic authenticity of English Gypsy décor down to the last bolt.
“They lived in these things full time (in the 18th and 19th centuries) — entire families,” Henry says, demonstrating how an interior bench pulls out into a double bed. “Before (the wagons), they traveled in horses and carts and lived in tents.”
After running through a brief history of Gypsy expansion — from 12th century India into Great Britain, Henry’s birthplace — Henry recounted annals of his “bouncing around the world” as a young adult in the 1960s. The parallels were thick and apparent.
He roamed through Europe and eventually hitchhiked into India and back. Leaving his Gypsy-caravan-loving friends in the Old Country in 1974, Henry flew to New York and thumbed across the United States into California. Upon landing steady work as a plumber and craftsman on the Coastside, he traded in his transient lifestyle for a more rural one.
Time has caught up with even the truest of Gypsies, Henry says.
“I know maybe 1 percent of the Gypsy world live in (caravans) full time … but they all still keep them,” he said.
Once the undercarriage of the open lot is primed and installed, all that will remain are minor painting touch-ups. When it’s ready to roll out, Henry says he’ll try some “discreet” overnight camping in the hills behind his home. The idea is to get Queeny, Henry’s English Gypsy cob, comfortable towing the contraption before he brings it up to speed — maybe 20 miles-per-hour, he says — on Highway 1.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Henry has taken his cart, a two-wheeler parked at his home, to downtown Half Moon Bay to run grocery errands in years past. He also pulled former Mayor Melvin Mello’s casket to its resting place in 1991.
When he formally retires, Henry says he’ll get into Gypsy wagon restoration full time — an untapped market in the states.
“They’re getting popular in America,” he said. “There’s a real interest in Gypsy horses, but no one has caravans to drive them.”
From his father and stepmother, Henry inherited more than just the caravan and the enthusiasm; he’s also imbued with a diehard Gypsy tendency.
“I’ve been here for 30 years but still haven’t settled in,” Henry says, surveying his property. “If I had to, I could pick up and move everything here.”
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