Our story starts at the end of 2019. A young(er) Kiri and Steve sat dreaming about recreating part of our motorhome road trip around Europe but this time with two little ones. Over the following weeks a plan began to form of a mini road trip around France, seeking aires near playgrounds and child-friendly areas. By February 2020 we had a rough itinerary and we’d even booked our ferries and were beginning to think about campsites for summer 2020… but then there was this emerging virus, so we held fire.

Fast forward to 2025. The road trip still hadn’t happened and now we didn’t have a readily-accessible motorhome in the family. However, with the promise of wider family holiday in a gite near Bordeaux, we recognised the opportunity for fulfilling those dreams. And so that is how we found ourselves in summer 2025 with me explaining to our children that the following day we would be driving our nearly 20 year old car on the right in France. As I began to get into the intricacies of the “priorité à droite” rule, Kiri exclaimed that she’d never heard of this rule before and was it new… which is exactly what she’d said every time we talked about it 10 years ago. Ah, happy memories.

With passports created for all of the cuddly toys we were taking with us, our heavily laden trusty 2006 Toyatater Yaris trundled towards Portsmouth with camping stuff in the roofbox and not an inch of room to spare. It turned out there was nothing in the handbook covering how to change the speedo from mph to kph… but eventually we found out that you need to press the trip meter reset button for more than one second while the odometer is displayed… but the headlights must be turned off! Weird.

Once on the ferry soon after 11, we set up camp for a 6 hour crossing. We managed to exhaust the “entertainment” options (restaurant, bar and minimal outdoor space) on the boat that was smaller than expected, so we played a board game then ate our packed lunch at 1140. By 12 Kiri was saying she was bored, which I interpreted as “on board”… which was very true, so we got out some activity books for the kids and did some sketching and reading. However, the yaw, pitch and roll (slightly different from shake, rattle and roll) didn’t combine well with these close focus activities, so we took plenty of wanders outside.

At 1400, the screen came out for additional entertainment, as Kiri finished her overpriced coffee with a look that communicated both disdain at what she’d just drunk, yet also lament that it was now gone. By 1600 (5 hours in), we’d eaten all of the snacks we’d prepared and with a ham sandwich costing more than a shower on board, we were glad when the Le Havre Pilote arrived by helicopter to manouevre us into the harbour at 1615.

“Wow, France is so different” was the exclamation from our eldest as we returned to the car deck of the ferry (without actually being able to see any of France), but it certainly was different as we drove on the right the short distance to our Airbnb at Fontaine-la-Mallet. I surprised myself with a fully French conversation that I had with the owner where I managed to understand he was recommending a trip to Honfleur just 20 minutes away, and I was able to respond that I went there when I was 12! However, our stomachs were ready for food, so we re-heated the frozen meal we’d brought with us and cooked some pasta before heading out to Spar to grab some food for breakfast.

Despite a meltdown from our youngest at bedtime (in their defence it had been a very long day and it was way past their normal bedtime), Kiri and I managed a fraction of an evening as we shared a wee drop of wine and started to plan the journey to Paris the next day. We found a maze on the map… but we realised it was probably bedtime when the best answer I could give to the question of “where is it?” was “near France”.

Chocolate brioche was to provide the fuel to get us to Lidl the next morning where we stocked up on bread, cheese (kiri and boursin) and some veggie bits for lunch and dinner before hitting the route nationales / départementale as we weren’t in a rush. Well, not with the driving anyway. Just before lunch time one of kids without warning declared they needed the loo urgently… we spotted a place where a landrover had pulled off the road up ahead and followed it… only to alarmingly scrape the chassis of our car on the edge of the road. Deciding this was not the best place to stop, we hastily returned to the road and found a more appropriate spot a couple of kilometres further on. Noticing the car also seemed to be relieving itself of fluids with an intermittent drip, we opened the bonnet to identify the source… which fortunately was the air conditioning. Panic over. 20 minutes later we found a lovely spot by a river to have lunch on a bench where we introduced the kids to the cheesy version of their Mum, whilst realising that without a fridge, we had a lot of boursin to consume!

Now reeking of garlic, we swapped drivers and headed down the very straight D6014 towards Paris, stopping at a maize maze for some added entertainment in the form of getting lost, interspersed with some wooden games. If there had been more time, we would have done the whole thing, but as there was an option half way around to stop and we had a campsite to get to, we ducked out.

It turns out the maze had prepared us well for getting lost slightly in Paris on the way to the campsite – first we missed a turning, then there was a height restriction that would have removed our roof box, so we saw one bit of road at least 3 times from different directions, but eventually we got to the campsite.

If we’d had a motorhome with supplies on board, this would have been a brilliant location. However our pitch was essentially plastic matting, so pitching a tent wasn’t the easiest. And we’d read there was a supermarket on site, so we’d hoped we could get some meat for tea there… well the options were salami or sausage… and the beers were Heineken or Kronenburg. We bought cheese and tried to pay for it by card… only to be told there was a 10 Euro card limit. We hadn’t got cash out by then, so unfortunately we were forced to buy a bottle of wine if we wanted cheese.

After roughly pitching our tent and cooking some dinner the kids headed off to the play area and soon made friends with another family. As we chatted to their parents, it turned out neither party had been given full details on check-in – they’d been given details of timetables and travel for getting into the city that we hadn’t, and we’d been given the gate code that gave access to the river which they hadn’t. We swapped knowledge! As the light faded we had a quiet stroll by the river, got the kids down and then had some wine, accompanied by city traffic noise.

The traffic noise didn’t abate during the night, and for an hour around 1am there was even more noise as a motorhome arrived on the pitch next to us. Once ready for the day, we headed to reception to get the full details of travel passes for Paris – we were told to buy a travel pass at the train station, but that the bus to the train station only took cash. Oh. Very kindly, the friends we’d made the previous day were at the campsite bus stop and offered to buy us the bus tickets… however in the end it turned out the shuttle bus to the station was free. Once at the train station we bought our Navigo passes and introduced the kids to the concept of a double decker train.

And then we were in the heart of Paris. Now for those of you who followed our travels around Europe (before “van life” was a thing), you’ll know that we don’t like looking like tourists, so will much rather get lost in a large city than stop to get out a map. We arrived at Châtelet–Les Halles station, not knowing at the time that this is the largest underground station in the world and were faced with having to choose which of the many exits to take. We knew Notre Dame was south, so, using the sun as our guide (once we’d chosen a random exit), we strode confidently roughly towards the sun, but a bit to the right… in totally the wrong direction. However, as with most of our other experiences of getting lost, we found something beautiful – exciting, creative, arty fountains outside the Pompidou centre.

From there we meandered towards the river, captivated by street art and fine patisseries in windows. And then we were at Notre Dame with all of its rebuilt splendour. Cities with kids are slightly different than cities as a couple, so we decided not to queue to go in, but instead enjoy its grandeur from the outside, before moving onto the next thing – lunch in a bouillon.

We like to try to eat like locals wherever we go, and a bouillon with its no nonsense menu of hearty food and shared tables sounded like it would be an experience. Inside, the decor was ornate and elaborate with a back-lit stained glass ceiling, however the no-nonsense approach extended to the staff, who took one look at us and gave us the English menus (obviously for efficiency). We won’t mention that our youngest spotted a silhouette of a mouse running across the glass ceiling, but instead will focus on the lovely food, the intriguing way of taking our order (waiter writing on the paper tablecloth) and the bustle of mainly locals around us. 4 full stomachs for 56 Euros.

With just the one day in Paris, the Eiffel Tower was calling us and we had pre-booked tickets to go to the second floor. The children dealt with the queuing brilliantly and soon we were being whisked high into the sky by the lift. We avoided the gift shop up there (noting that the same souvenir that we’d bought for 4 Euros earlier to break a 50 Euro note was 9 Euros up here) and Kiri rebelled against the safety signs, but we loved the view.

Having had enough of queuing for one day we chose to take the stairs back down to the ground, eventually emerging with legs of jelly. With limited time remaining, we had a family conflab to decide whether we’d head for Montematre or whether we’d be best served returning to the campsite via an icecream. The former could have also involved icecream, but the latter option was chosen and, after again some poor navigation on my part, everyone was satisfied. Nearby was a G20 supermarket where we stocked up on supplies for that evening and breakfast the following morning, trying to ignore the fact that the wine we’d bought at the campsite for 9 Euros the previous evening was available here for just under 3 Euros. With baguettes sticking out of our backpacks we hopped on a bus to take us via the Arc de Triomphe on our way home.

We have to thank the kind folk of Paris who we may have confused on public transport that day. Our youngest was keen to try out all of the French they knew… so alternated between greeting strangers with “Bonjour pomme de terre” and announcing “je suis une banane”. It’s a great way to break the ice and start a conversation, however my limited French couldn’t always explain why those phrases had been uttered. So thank you Parisians for your understanding.

We were back at the campsite by 1830 where we tucked into a quick dinner, tucked the kids in to bed and then tucked into some Belgian beer (sorry France) as the light faded, nervously looking at the weather forecast for the following morning.

And what a morning. We were woken by rain at 0430 – hopefully just a passing shower? Hmmm, maybe not. So we made a plan. Get stuff out of the car into the tent, with the kids in the car. We then make sense of our gear, then load everything back into the car. But first coffee. So the kids sat in the tent eating their breakfast. I boiled the kettle, trying to shelter under our open boot. The drizzle got heavier. Proper rain. Then heavy rain. Then torrential rain. The things in the boot started to get wet. The folk in the tent started to get wet as puddles formed on the plastic matting we’d pitched on. I gave up on trying to stay dry. After a blur of sogginess, somehow everyone had been fed and all of our things had been packed away, soaking wet into the car. And then the rain stopped. At which point another British family nearby emerged from their tent, packed up in the dry and moved on. We felt silently judged by the German family on the pitch next to us (not that we stereotype).

Once on the road, we crawled around the Paris ring road in further showers and eventually made it onto the autoroute. After 3 stops in quick succession (we believe boredom in the car had led to over-hydration), we relented and had an early lunch before once more returning to the highway, flying at speeds that our trusty Bertha (RIP – 1990 to 2020) could only have dreamed of. Our destination was a campsite in Montreuil Bellay, but first to Lidl. Alas, the points of interest on the satnav that we used 10 years ago were out of date and there was no longer a Lidl, however we found a HyperU, where the most French thing ever happened.

Almost like a scene from a French textbook, we were at the checkout, when the lady behind me abruptly announced “J’ai perdu ma courgette”. Her companion uttered “Ooh la la”. I glanced to the floor, found the offending article, picked it up and handed it back saying “Voila”. In that moment of pure poetry I forgot all of the wet things in our car and savoured the joy of the scene.

Anyway, we couldn’t hang about. We had rain due at 1700 (it was now 1630) and we didn’t want to pitch the tent in the rain. So we arrived at the campsite, pitched the tent and prayed. Guess what – it didn’t rain at all. The only issue we had was getting tent pegs into rock hard ground – by the time we settled down for our sausage and tomato pasta one-pan dinner, most of our things had dried out. In celebration we let our dinner settle down, then headed to the pool for 45 minutes or so. This was much more our kind of campsite – quiet and chilled, and after a brief wander by the river and a glance at the chateau we got the kids to bed. As we were in the Loire Valley famed for its wine, we did what anyone would have done… and finished the remaining bottles of Belgian beer as the kids slept.

It was a joy to be striking camp in the sun and warmth the following morning. After a breakfast of croissant and pain au chocolat, we packed everything away and made sense of the car. We kept our swimming stuff handy and were in the pool for a final swim when it opened at 10:30. My parents hadn’t believed me the previous night when I’d informed them that swimming shorts were banned in the pool so I’d had to wear fitted trunks… and as I forgot to take a photo of the sign, they probably still don’t believe me!

We popped back to HyperU to grab bread and ham for lunch later and fill up with cheap fuel and then headed south past fields of sunflowers and vineyards. Our lunch stop at an aire gave us a chance to finish the solid block of butter we’d bought on arrival in France. Without a fridge it had done pretty well, but the final dregs were no match for the sun, so we had to dip our baguette into this liquid gold. We delighted in introducing the kids to a “proper” French public toilet (a ceramic-topped hole in the ground) before we hit the autoroute.

We were due to arrive at our gite near Bordeaux at 1630 based on the satnav (we’d said 1700 just to be on the safe side), but it soon became apparent as we hit traffic that this might not happen. The only comfort we took was that all southbound traffic on this first Saturday in August was affected (we see you Daz, likely born in 1963 with your Aston Martin DB11 and personalised numberplate). As we crawled through the toll gate with an ever lengthening ETA, there was one question on our mind. Would our French vocabulary run out of ways of explaining the traffic before the patience of our gite hosts ran out?

To be continued…

Just under two years since we departed mainland Europe in Bertha, we were back in France. Not in a motorhome. Not just the two of us. Nope, with our little one and Kiri’s parents, we squeezed into a family hatchback (with a roof box) with our destination set to be a campsite near a little village north of Bordeaux, where we were to meet up with Kiri’s sister’s family too. Turns out it’s quite a long drive from Calais to near St. Gilles…

Having nearly been defeated by the headlight deflectors (those things require a degree to be able to understand the instructions!) we realised less than a kilometre out of Calais that we’d left the sippy cup upside down in the wee one’s car seat. Although there was no complaining, we decided that if it were us, we wouldn’t particularly want a bidet experience on a long car journey, so we stopped at the first aire we came to, unpacked the roof box, got a change of clothes and patted down the car seat. Stopping and starting was to be the order of the day and therefore progress was slow, even though we were on toll roads (a luxury that we decided never to waste on Bertha, with her top speed of 90 km/h). It was a novel experience overtaking slower moving vehicles, although a little disheartening to overtake the same vehicle again after another stop for a nappy change or something to munch. It almost would have been easier to travel in a motorhome, with all facilities on board.

We eventually arrived at the campsite and disembarked into a chalet with a construction reminiscent of Bertha (although a little more modern). And there started our beautiful cycle of hearty meals outside – dinner with local wine, breakfasts of fresh bread, pain au chocolat and Schoko Müsli (more on that in a later blog post… when I next find time to write a blog post!), lunches of bread, olives and a fine array of cheeses. I seem to recall that a few other things happened between these mealtimes, but sharing food together was central to this holiday. I can almost still taste the tartiflette, the boeuf bourguignon and the risotto “with curly meat” (as described by my nephew – “prawns” to you and I). Ah yes, there were other things that happened – icecreams! Most were swiftly eaten and rescued before the hot sun plastered them all over our clothes (although in the case of my nephew his clothes got a pretty good deal), but the decadent flavours of tiramisu, coffee and creme brûlée linger in my memory.

Nom.

So what was this place that we were staying at? Well it wasn’t just a campsite – it’s a place run by Spring Harvest Holidays and their website describes it as “a setting in which you can be refreshed and renewed: spiritually, mentally and physically”. Sounds too much like organised fun? The great thing was that all activities were optional, so we could dip in and out of things as we wanted. For the first time in, well, a long time, Kiri and I were able to get fully immersed in a bible study, knowing that our little one was having a whale of a time with the grandparents. And what an appropriate time and place to be studying Acts 2 – a chapter in the bible in uncertain times where people were looking for a message of hope in a divided land. Soon after we arrived, our screens were bloodied by yet another inevitable and horrific Godless act of terror near Rouen. We joined together as a campsite to pray for France and all other countries affected by these acts. It’s amazing how much a continent can change in just two years – when we were travelling in Bertha, Schengen was still strong, an EU referendum wasn’t even on the cards and terrorist attacks were few and far between. What will the next two years hold for Europe?

Hmmm, I seem to have digressed a little. Where were we? Ah yes. Kiri and I made it along to a few of the organised sessions, but the rest of the mornings I was based in the 0-3 year old group, mainly being chased around a bouncy castle by boisterous 3 year olds, punctuated by occasionally being hit around the face by a spiderman toy. I thought it would be exhausting going on holiday with 3 children under 6 and I was right (“Why do I need to be quiet? Its 7 o’clock”), but it was so much fun too! With 6 adults, we were able to share the load of childcare and catering (although Kiri and I had the lightest load by far in the latter category) and have a lot of fun playing in the chalet and going to pool together. The incredible weather resulted in me trying to find a hat to wear in the pool (oh, the joys of having thinning hair) which I eventually found in the nearest Super-U next to the meat. Obviously. Mais oui… les chapeaux sont à proximité de la viande! And I even had time to read a whole book. Holidaying with family is definitely a win-win.

This was very much a holiday focussed on family time rather than “doing” stuff, or having adventures. But that’s not to say we didn’t have a few adventures – the two younger generations (bar the youngest member of the family) hired canoes and we had an exciting, if slightly uncoordinated, paddle up and down the local river. In my defence it was my first time in a canoe… I think the same could be said about our niece, but she seemed to pick it up faster than me!

We also had a day trip to Noirmoutier in the rain, planning on driving across the causeway on the way back that separates it from the mainland. Sadly, the sea’s timings were a little off (it definitely wasn’t our timings) and as we didn’t fancy the “risque de noyade”, we took the bridge instead.

Evenings were a time to play board games as the sky slowly darkened around us. I blame my increasing level of relaxation for my fall from grace that took me from winner of Carcassonne in the first game to definite loser by the last. My father-in-law has asked that his 3rd place on the final night be noted for posterity. On the two Fridays we were there, we took part in the pub quiz – unfairly robbed in the first one (we blame a miscount) despite acing a round on identifying European countries on a map (methinks we had an unfair advantage following our travels). The second one was better (4th out of 40 teams) and I am not ashamed to say we aced a round on 90s pop music. You can’t beat a bit of Hanson! Kiri and I even managed a date night where we sat in the bar at an open mic night; taking the opportunity to dream together about what our future might hold.

Suddenly our 10 days were up and we were off, back up the toll roads towards Calais. With our motorhome mindset very much alive, we asked our sat-nav for directions to the nearest supermarket petrol station (1.03 per litre rather than the 1.26 available on the motorway!) when we were running low. It was sobering to end up in the very suburb where the priest had been murdered a week previously. A quiet suburb where the supermarket wasn’t open on a Monday. With a ferry to catch and a young child to entertain in the car we didn’t have much time for reflection as we motored on up towards Cite L’Europe, where we had dinner and popped into Carrefour to grab four of our favourite beers from our trip in Bertha (for those of you who were wondering – Kwak, Westmalle Trappist, Chimay Blue and Kasteel Donker).

And then back to our little London flat with an ever growing and developing child. What a great holiday. Same again next year? Who knows what situation we’ll be in by then.

The clash of two titans. One has travelled thousands of miles, bringing chaos to transport systems; the talk of the media in the UK despite it being near the end of its journey. The other is, of course, a hurricane. Yes, as we settled down for our last few nights of the trip, we were ready for anything.

Our penultimate destination was the lovely town of Montreuil sur mer. We’re not exactly sure why it’s “sur mer”, as it’s not even near t’ mer, but nevertheless it’s a lovely town. Our aire for the night (two nights in fact) was a gravel car park next to the town petanque club. We thought we might be in for a bit of a noisy night when a van load of boy racers rocked up, skidding around, however they were just there for a civilised game of boules. Lovely really. What was a shock to the system though was the number of British numberplates we saw and British speakers we heard. Maybe it was some kind of gentle introduction back to life in the UK, but it was a bit strange to be able to understand so much of what was going on around us. Whilst the wind did pick up overnight in Montreuil, we’d hunkered down in the shelter of a larger motorhome and slept soundly. So, we think our Bertha won round 1 of the meeting with the other Bertha. It might have been through hiding / cowardice, but that’s still a win!

With mixed feelings we headed up the coast to Calais, for our final overnight stop of the trip. Night 241. That’s a lot of nights… and we couldn’t help but be happy that we would be returning to the UK to some kind of familiarity and normality. But at the same time, this has been our life for the last 9 months… well, longer than that if you count all of the time spent preparing Bertha too. Were we ready to give it up?

We’d heard a few horror stories of aires in Calais not being safe, so we mused on whether we might have an extra story of robbery and intrigue following our stay there. Happily for us, but sadly for the interest of the blog, the only excitement was the return of Bertha (the storm that is). After a night of torrential rain (as our Bertha didn’t leak, we’ll count it as a draw rather than a victory for the other Bertha), we chomped down on a pain au chocolat before heading to the ferry… on which we consumed a croissant each too.

And then we were back on British soil. Accompanied by a “Home” playlist compiled by Kiri (including Billy Joel, Kate Rusby, Green Day, Martyn Joseph, Bright Eyes and of course Lynyrd Skynyrd), we remembered to drive on the left and were home before we knew it.

So that’s that then. 4510 miles covered in the last 4 months to add to the 7368 covered on our first leg.

What next? Well, we’ve put Bertha in for her MOT (our van, not the storm), and now we’re catching up on 4 months of paperwork – tax return here I come!

“I don’t think I could cope if we broke down today”. We’d just topped up with petrol in France; being forced to go with SP98 (the 98 refers to the amount of octane in the fuel), as they had no SP95 which we normally go for. We knew that SP95 E10 (the E refers to ethanol) wouldn’t work in Bertha, but we were fairly sure that we should be fine using SP98. A little doubt remained though as we switched our wipers to full to try to clear the torrential rain from our windscreen. With visibility down to about 50 metres, we slowed right down. Suddenly… BANG.

A bang is never a good sound to hear in Bertha. Especially not when coupled with the oil warning light coming on. Either we’d run over some foreign object, or that was a misfire. Fortunately, by now we’re dab hands at breakdowns (this being the 3rd of the trip), so with hazard warning lights on, we drifted to the side slowly, at which point Bertha’s engine cut out. Good. Something in my subconscious told me we would be better off the motorway and as we were inches before a slip road, I tried to turn the engine back on. Just the standard turning over and a clicking sound… nothing more. It was difficult to see whether it was smoke, steam, or just spray coming from Bertha’s bonnet, but deciding that caution was the best option, we grabbed our coats, hi-viz jackets and warning triangle and bundled out of Bertha.

We needed to call our breakdown company, but without much credit left on our phone (deliberately, as we were only 4 days away from returning to the UK), the first job was to top up. Which we needed to do online. By now the rain had eased to a steady pour and we could see that there was no smoke coming from Bertha, so we hopped back inside (along with several gallons of water), onto the laptop, got online and topped up the phone (getting an extra £2 credit – bonus!) before calling Britannia. They then reminded us of the breakdown rules on French motorways. As we didn’t want the hassle of walking to the SOS box and really didn’t want to disturb the police we tried the ignition again… which fired up immediately with no warning lights. Cautiously we crawled off the motorway and reconstructed our breakdown configuration, whilst I pondered the higher grade fuel we’d used and whether that might be the cause.

When we called Britannia again, the hold music was, ironically, “Happy“. I spoke to a guy called Steve, who said he’d pass on our details to IMA. Shortly afterwards IMA called us and I spoke to a different guy called Steve who told us that a recovery truck would be with us within an hour. So we had lunch; one of the benefits of being in a motorhome when you break down!

When the French mechanics arrived (neither of them called Steve), I explained the situation in broken French (although IMA Steve said that he had told them already). The mechanic then pointed at the non-illuminated oil light and said that we’d have to go to a Peugeot garage. Not good news; we hadn’t had a particularly positive experience with a Peugeot garage in Switzerland. After turning Bertha round, we hopped out of her and watched her being winched onto the back of their truck, giving the fresh water tank a good old scrape on the ground on the way. Accompanied by Queen and the Bee Gees we headed in the direction we’d just come to the Peugeot garage, where Bertha was unceremoniously dumped outside… again, with a good old scrape of the water tank.

At the Peugeot garage reception, our mechanics took charge, explaining that there was a problem with Bertha’s oil and that we should call our breakdown company to get a taxi to a hotel. Ummm… sorry? They then disappeared, leaving us unsure what was going on. Eventually a Peugeot mechanic sauntered over and asked where the oil leak was. It was apparent that we were in the midst of another breakdown – this time in communication. We got the bi-lingual IMA on the phone again to act as translators whilst someone checked the oil level (unsurprisingly, this was fine) then started to fiddle around with the carburetter.

After a couple of minutes during which we heard the word “carburateur” being spelled out on the phone to IMA, the phone was handed back to us and we were alone once more with Bertha. The guy at IMA (sadly, not Steve) then explained that “a line” going into something that he didn’t know the name of (I suggested “carburetter” and he enthusiastically agreed) had been loose and was now fixed.

We’re not really sure why Bertha was carried 15km out of her way just to re-attach “a line” (which, with the help of the guys at TalbotOC.com we’ve diagnosed as the connection to the idle cut off solenoid), but hey ho, we were on our way once more with the only cost being the tiredness from an emotional rollercoaster (and possibly a little more damage to our fragile fresh water tank)!

Hopefully that will be the last big drama of this trip, but with Bertha’s namesake storm getting ever nearer, who knows?

167 miles in 4 days versus 592 miles in 4 days. You could say that we’re taking this loop a little more slowly than the previous loop! It’s not gone exactly according to plan thus far, but we’re in Belgium and Bruges is on the horizon for the Easter weekend, so we’re not deviating too far from the plan.

Once we’d overcome the minor hiccup with the fresh water tank cap, our first night was spent in Bray Dunes, just along the coast from Dunkirk. It’s a stunning bit of coastline, which makes it difficult to imagine the atrocities of war amongst the dunes there three quarters of a century ago. Even the wrecks of a few boats that are visible at low tide can’t begin to evoke pictures of the bloodshed there. All we can do is reflect on those who have given their lives and pray for peace in current war zones.

As we were in no rush, after the first evening, we decided that we’d stay there for a second night, so we had a chilled morning (including stocking up on French cheese!) before we decided to go for a wander along the beach together. We were just leaving Bertha, when Kiri spotted a puddle. Under Bertha. A quick dip of the finger into the puddle revealed that it was oil. A quick lie down next to Bertha revealed that it was coming from the drain plug of the sump tank. Not good news.

Abandoning the walk, we researched a local garage and looked up the French for “sump tank drain plug”. Eventually I settled on “bouchon d’huile” as an easier way of describing it and we set off for a garage. It’s amazing how far a few words of French and lots of hand gestures can get you. From what we understood, the mechanic told us we’d need to go to a Peugeot garage to get a new drain plug and we shouldn’t touch the plug ourselves, as all of the oil would drain out (his hand signals for this part were especially pleasing). The Peugeot garage didn’t want to know and they fobbed us off on the Renault garage next door. Here we had a lovely welcome and once again, although they didn’t speak any English, we managed to communicate pretty well. Del Boy would have been proud of my French language skills. We were to come back in the morning, when they would do a “vidange” and re-seal the plug… for just over 100 Euros.

As we arrived back at the aire, we were greeted by Jeff; a very friendly Brit in his late 70s. We explained our predicament and he made it his personal mission to help us avoid spending that much money to get the problem fixed. After a good hour of trying with various tools and bodges, we couldn’t get the current drain plug off (we’d even modified a water container to catch the oil), so conceded defeat. At this, Jeff gave us a bottle of wine, despite our protestations that we should be the ones giving wine to him in thanks!

The following morning came and we dropped Bertha off at the Renault garage and went into the nearby town to have a pain au chocolat (we understand that’s part of the protocol in France when your vehicle is being fixed!). At 12 we returned to be reunited with Bertha, who had a new washer on her drain plug and lashings of sealant too. No danger of further leaks there, and the work done for 20 Euros fewer than quoted. Bargain.

From there it was a short drive into Belgium. Unfortunately I’ve not been too well for the last few days, so we’re having a couple of days of rest on another free aire before we explore Bruges. We’re loving the slower pace of travelling this time though and feel no pressure to rush… I’ve managed to read a whole novel already. This is the life!

This is it; we’re off again! Well, to be more precise, we’ve gone. Scarpered. We are no longer in the UK! It’s great to be back on the road and we’re looking forward to settling into our travelling rhythm once again.

This time we feel a little less daunted by the journey ahead; we’re more familiar with the whole travelling thing and we know (to a certain extent) what might face us in the next few months as we travel through northern Europe. Because of this, we’ve stocked up with all of the essentials that we’ll struggle to find on the road… 160 Clipper tea bags, a few tins of baked beans, some English mustard, peanut butter and wholewheat pasta (truly British!). With this arsenal, we can face anything (within reason). It’s also through experience that we know to caveat broad statements like that – we’re sure to face the unexpected.

In fact, we faced the unexpected sooner than we thought we might. We arrived at Dover this morning in good time and decided to turn on the gas and make a cup of tea. Where was the key to the gas locker though? We thought back to when we knew we had it last. We weren’t on the ferry yet, but we had a sinking feeling. The key had last been spotted (along with the key to the fresh water and toilet) in the fresh water cap when we had filled up at home. I rushed round to the fresh water filling point. No cap anywhere to be seen… just a gaping hole, pleading for more water. We’d seen several lambs on our journey, but none looked as sheepish (sorry, I know it’s a terrible pun) as Kiri did now. From the girl who brought you “how to stand on a bumper”, comes “how to forget to replace the fresh water cap”. Doh. So, we had no cap for our fresh water tank, and the keys for the gas locker and toilet were probably keeping the cap company somewhere.

Fortunately we had spare keys for the gas locker and toilet, but that didn’t solve the problem of the fresh water tank. Clingfilm provided a temporary solution whilst we searched online for a camping shop in Calais. Once on the ferry, we received confirmation from Britain that our fresh water tank cap and associated keys had been located, but looking a little worse for wear. We had made the right choice in not turning back for home and soon the friendly folk at Calais Caravanes were lining our palms with a brand new cap. Sorted.

So we’ve started as we mean to go on! In all honesty though, it was just a minor hiccup and it’s good to be back in Bertha with an adventure in northern Europe ahead of us.

Carcassonne. What a great game. Almost as good as Settlers. Maybe? Well, this was also the last place in southern France that we wanted to visit before hitting Spain. Rather than going straight there from the Verdon Gorge, we decided to amble around the coast, spending a night in Arles, then a windy night next to a beach. We’d not planned to stop there overnight, but when we pulled up for lunch, we decided that as it was such a nice spot, we’d stay for longer.

Before we get on to talking about Carcassonne, we’ve got to mention flamingoes. We hadn’t really expected to see flamingoes on the trip, so when we first spotted them, Kiri got a little excited. Actually, that’s probably an understatement. Kiri got VERY excited. You’ll have to wait until the video of this part of the trip to fully appreciate the excitement level (if it makes the final cut!), but I would go as far as to say it was significant excitement (and from my days as a data analyst, I don’t use the word “significant” lightly!). Sadly there was nowhere near any of the flamingoes to stop Bertha and take photos, so this the best shot(!) taken as Bertha sped(!) past them.

So, Carcassonne. A great fortified medieval city. A cracking board game. A cracking book (Labyrinth by Kate Mosse). A cracking visit? Well, in some ways, yes, but in some ways, no. As a place, it is stunning and well worth a visit. If you’re into your history of knights and castles it’s fascinating to wander around the walls and get a feel for how protected it is. Sadly though, the myriad shops and restaurants inside the city don’t feel as if they’ve been set up sensitively. You expect a little bit of tourist tat in any place like that, but it seemed to be choking the soul of the city. I’m sure that it’s not necessary to have 3 museums of torture within a tiny city like that. So whilst it was worth a visit, it didn’t really float our boat (and not just because the moat has no water in any more).

The following morning, we set off before breakfast, as we would have to pay extra for the car park we’d stayed in overnight if we had left after 8am. As it was, the barrier was up (unexpected bonus!), so we didn’t even have to pay for the previous day in the car park either. After breakfast on the road, we headed for a little village a short drive away, as we’d read that there was a motorhome stop there with good facilities, including free electric hookup. As it turned out, none of the facilities were operational, but we decided to stay anyway and have a chilled day. We’re glad we did, as we saw our first British motorhome of the trip (imagine that; our 83rd day in mainland Europe, and our first British motorhome). We exchanged a polite “hello” with the owners, talked a little about the weather, then wished each other safe travelling. How very British.

And then on the road towards Spain. We emptied our toilet in the next village along in some public loos (we think we were allowed to…?) and set off towards the Pyrenees. Au Revoir France!

When one imagines the Italian Riviera, it’s a picture of sun, sea, boats and lots of people in lycra on bikes. Well, that’s a pretty accurate picture, but maybe with a little more rain in January! We did have a couple of glorious days as well as the rain though.

As we travelled along the coast, we had been told that if we were passing near to San Remo, we had to visit Bussana Vecchia. Some of the time, we do what we’ve been told, so we stopped for the night by a marina in Arma di Taggia then the following morning we drove to Bussana Nuovo (“new” Bussana) and parked Bertha. Our destination was a village that had been ruined in an earthquake in the late 19th century and subsequently abandoned. Then, in the 1960s a group of hippies moved in and started creating art there. Their legacy is an exciting half-ruined village filled with artists, which is best reached on foot.

Bussana Vecchia was right up our street; especially as it was so quiet (we imagine it’s busier in the summer). We enjoyed exploring the alleyways and thinking about how great it was that something that was once seen as worthless was now a place of beauty once more. As it was so small though, we did feel as if we were intruding, so we were almost ready to leave when we arrived at Ronald’s place. Now Julien + Anais had told us that we had to go to Ronald’s place (the only house in the village with a windsurf outside!). We summoned courage and wandered into the garden, where we met a British guy called Roger, a Swiss guy called Max, a dog called Bea and a goat with an identity crisis (she thought she was a dog too). The few hours that followed were some of the best of the trip so far.

Roger + Max explained some of the history behind Ronald’s place; how the vision was to set up a place where artists could come and live for free; sharing all resources and working together. We were invited to join them and stay with them for a while; if it hadn’t been for the fact there was nowhere to leave Bertha and our time constraints, we might well have. It was just such an inviting and exciting model of community. After sharing coffee, having a look round and showing Pablo (another resident artist) how to set up a playlist of Lou Reed songs on the computer(!) we headed to Roger’s house/studio down the hill.

It was great to share time with Roger; getting a measure of what makes him tick and seeing the passion when he talked about his ways of working. Often when you see art in a gallery, it can seem a little sterile, whereas we were seeing pieces that he was working on in their natural environment. It’s not often that you’re asked by an artist for your opinion on whether a piece is complete… that’s a very deep question with any art! We learned a lot from Roger, and I think that Kiri particularly got a lot from that meeting… and in fact the whole time in Bussana Vecchia. She had a revelation that I’m sure will not come as a surprise to anyone who knows her; she’s born to paint.

From there we floated to the border on petrol fumes, as French petrol is sooo much cheaper, before heading towards the Verdon Gorge; Europe’s response to the Grand Canyon. We took half a day to just pootle around the southern lip of the gorge; stopping at every opportunity to breathe in the natural beauty. It was a gorgeous (sorry) day; if it hadn’t been a little on the chilly side, you could have mistaken it for summer and the place was deserted. Aside from Bertha being hit by a fallen rock (it’s ok, she’s fine, but it’s a reminder that those warning signs are there for a reason!), it was a perfect day.

And so from here we move south; a few more days of France, then we’ll be in sunny Spain.

The second of our films about the trip is now available on YouTube

Roads. They’re all the same. They’re all equal. You drive on them to get from A to B. Sometimes on the right. Sometimes on the left (not so much over here on mainland Europe). But maybe all roads aren’t equal… maybe some are “more equal than others”?

The trusty map that’s helping us find our way through Europe has a lovely way of marking toll roads as pink… maybe it’s to try to soften the blow of them? France has plenty of pink roads… as does Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia… basically all of the countries that we’ve been through so far.

What’s interesting is the variety of methods of taking the tolls:

• Fixed period vignette – these are little stickers that you fix to your windscreen and they last for a certain length of time (in Switzerland it’s a calendar year, in Austria the shortest we could buy was for 10 days and in Slovenia the shortest period was a week)
• Toll booth with payment – this is the standard one that we’re used to in England; the same kind of thing as the Dartford Bridge or the Severn crossing into Wales. We experienced this with Austrian tunnels… we thought it a bit cheeky to be taxed with both a vignette for general motorway usage, then tolls for specific tunnels!
• Ticket and resulting toll booth – when you join the motorway, you take a little ticket, then when you leave the motorway, you put your ticket back into a machine (or give it to a person) and you’re charged for the distance travelled. We experienced this in Croatia and Serbia and this seems like the fairest method of them all.

When we set off on this adventure, we were determined to avoid tolls wherever possible, but from our little collection of vignettes, you can see that it hasn’t worked out quite as planned:

Actually, in France, avoiding tolls worked nicely for us; the route nationale roads are well surfaced and aside from taking you through the centre of little villages, they’re pretty fast. Switzerland was more of an issue for us; if we wanted to avoid tolls, we would have had to do lots of ups and downs. Big ups and downs. As it was, even with travelling on the toll roads, we had to do several large ups and downs, struggling to keep above the minimum speed limit on the motorways. Austria was a similar story with either toll routes through mountain tunnels and across the valleys on bridges, or non toll roads with ups and downs. We chose the tolls!

By the time we got to Slovenia, we had seen our first bit of snow and, wishing to avoid further snow, we opted for the fastest route… which involved taking toll roads. Then with Croatia, we had issues finding places to stop overnight that were close to each other, so we had to travel long distances in a relatively short period of time. Best option? Tolls.

So, are these tolls taking their toll? Did I actually make that awful pun? Maybe. Without retracing our route but missing out toll roads, it would be hard to calculate how much fuel we’ve saved by taking the direct route and avoiding long hill climbs. So far tolls have cost us roughly £116 … that’s a good couple of tanks of fuel. Is it worth taking toll roads? We think for now it probably is… but that might change once we’re on flatter ground once again and not running away from something!