Road tripping around Europe with a family and an unreliable campervan.
A short story of how our campervan broke down in the south of France and why this didn’t ruin our holiday. Written in September 2018.
The plan was clear. Five countries in just over three weeks, driving a converted AA VW van, with two children. What could possibly go wrong?
A few years ago we spent a rainy weekend working out if we could afford to buy a campervan. Our detailed spreadsheet showed the price of summer holidays, plus the cost of a vehicle vs the cost of a campervan, maintenance and campsites. The campervan option won by the finest of margins, so one brisk winters day we found ourselves the proud owners of a converted ex-AA Volkswagen campervan.
Our children named her Sandy and we gradually fitted out her cupboards with an ever-increasing range of camping paraphernalia. Some essential, some not. Her name appeared on the outside of the van above the words ‘Seek Adventure’ — it’s a phrase we say to each other to remind ourselves not to settle with our lives, to not stop pursuing a fulsome life and to not always take the easy option.
At every occasion we escape to the beach and Sandy would gently reek of damp wetsuits for days afterwards. She ventured over to France with us on several occasions, each more fun than the last. She was a great addition to the family and the time had now come to take her on a lengthy road trip.
A road-trip dreamt up over Google Maps
One evening while dreaming over Google Maps a route seemed to appear on the screen in front of me. We could depart Dover for Calais, then head east to Belgium, south through Germany, cut across to Austria and then wind through Switzerland, before crossing the border and arriving in the South of France, then heading north, skirting around Paris and returning home via Calais.
Anna, my wife, sensibly suggested that Austria be as far east as we go. She saw my eyes flittering towards Slovenia, Croatia and the gorgeous coastline all the way down to Greece. In retrospect, she was absolutely right, but at the time I lamented the loss of the extra countries we could visit.
Our family Road Trip would be a way that we could see more of Europe, spend more time in countries that we’d only passed through or admired postcards of and spend some quality time together, lapping up the miles. There was the thought that maybe I should do a mechanics course, in case Sandy struggled along the way, but in the swirl of life this never quite happened and my blind optimism that everything would be ok came back to bite us on the bottom.
Cardiff to Belgium
A few days into August (and after our neighbours had been tasked with plant watering duties) we set off along the M4 from Cardiff under blue skies, with music pulsing through the van, passports safely stowed and accommodation booked. We switched our phones to ‘airplane mode’ (as is our way on days off and holidays), there were to be no more emails, phone calls, group Whatsapp messages or social media for the remainder of the holiday and we exchanged excited grins as we headed away from home.
Following an uneventful night in a cheap and dirty Travelodge not far from Dover we boarded the ferry and left Sandy ensconced in the belly of the Ferry, while we sipped questionable coffee and leaned over the railings watching the hypnotic swell of the channel sluice against the ship, as France loomed invitingly.
Exiting the ferry we reminded ourselves to switch to the right-hand side of the road before Sandy was opened up and began to gobble up the continental miles. Our children (7 & 9) happily reading or playing games in the back, occasionally asking which country we were now in. With windows down (no air-conditioning) and hair billowing, we headed towards Belgium and our first destination, Dinant.
Belgium to Germany
Dinant is the birthplace of the Saxophone and home of the stunning Collegiale Notre-Dame, but in reality was chosen as our overnight destination due to its acceptable driving distance from Calais, paired with the most affordable hotel I could find.
Driving through multiple countries and staying in some locations for only one night is an odd existence, as you have to be mindful to enjoy the place you find yourself in, whilst also aware that you need to leave in time to enjoy the next place. You have to relax into enjoying the day, whilst also knowing you have four hours of driving to do in a short while.
Shortly after graduating and getting married, Anna and I went backpacking and stayed in numerous dubious hostels with the world’s great unwashed, as we flew, hitched, drove and were driven in pursuit of sunsets, culture, and exploration. There is a glamour to travelling that sometimes only comes in retrospect and a 24-hour stopover can fit into that category. You’re trying to see the sites you came for, casually stroll through the towns, leisurely enjoy local delicacies and not hurry children along; whilst trying to not miss anything but maintaining holiday mode.
It’s not for everyone and we quickly learnt to let things go, focus on what’s in front of us and sometimes only be able to dwell on the full scope of where we’d just been in retrospect.
Belgium led us to Germany, where we loosely followed the Romantic Road — a route conjured up by the German tourism board to herd visitors through multiple historic and medieval towns — to the tip of Switzerland.
The Romantische Straße afforded us the opportunity to visit Würzburg and Rothenburg ob der Tauber, drop in on Donauworth, camp near Rosenheim and finish the route in Füssen after a detour to Salzburg in Austria to see the birthplace of Mozart and the Sound of Music — where we spent an amusing damp day seeing who could photobomb the most tourists, much to the horror of our children, despite making many new friends and cheering up several Japanese holidaymakers in the process.
As we approached Füssen we joined the hordes of tourists (having seen very few so far) to visit Europe’s most photographed castle — and the inspiration for Disney’s iconic multi-turreted castle — the fabulous Neuschwanstein Castle. Trudging up the hill as the towers flickered behind tall trees, we did battle with lines of eager-eyed trigger-happy camera-posing families (probably best defined as a gaggle of tourists) and found ourselves wowed by this Bavarian marvel from every angle.
Driving on to Füssen and our hostel for the night, we carefully deposited Sandy on a side street and walked into town.
The 29th best darts player in Germany
Our holidays are planned by destinations, but then left open for when we get there, which means we can either find ourselves kicking our heels or in the midst of a beautiful serendipitous moment, which was fortunately the case in Füssen.
After a quiet dinner (for us, not for the people on the table next to us, who instantly regretted a young family being in their proximity), we casually sauntered through the quiet streets until we turned a corner and feasted our eyes on a German town festival in full swing.
At one end was a stage which housed a brass band (in full lederhosen), food stalls lined the sides and (my favourite part) there was a pop-up bar serving steins sloshing with chilled German beer. In the middle of the square were tightly packed lines of tables and benches, where local residents were squeezed in next to friends, strangers and the occasional tourist. Anna and I divided and conquered. I went for the steins, she went for salty snacks, then we reconvened at a table with barely enough space for the four of us and introduced ourselves (which is a necessity when you’re sharing bottom space) to our new neighbours.
To my right was, I learnt, the 29th best darts player in German, although after the number of steins he’d consumed I would have been impressed if he could have hit the board, let alone beaten the 30th best darts player in German.
During the course of the evening, he and I conversed in broken English and GCSE German, ordered steins and giant pretzels, sang along with the band, banged our steins on the table, robustly knocked glasses mid-song with everyone else on the table and had a genuinely wonderful time in this unexpected authentic beer-drinking community. Upon returning to our hostel I fell asleep with a smile on my face and a stomach full of pretzel.
Driving into Switzerland the next day, we snaked through grassy meadows, winding quiet roads and, on exiting one of many tunnels, found ourselves gazing up at snow-capped peaks and dramatic landscapes.
Sandy’s problems
It was during this day that the first hint of problems with Sandy started. Ascending one hill a warning light came on to warn us that we were running low on water in the radiator reservoir. Considering the temperature we were driving in (late 30’s) this didn’t seem at all unreasonable.
A warning light is a funny occasion. My immediate reaction is for my stomach to drop through the floor, followed by the frantic page-turning of our Haynes manual to try and diagnose what this light could possibly mean. The Haynes manual, incidentally, is a laughable possession as I only own a spanner because it was bought for me, but I feel that I should own a Haynes manual and futilely learn the names of the parts that make Sandy work (or not). Following the inability to diagnose the issue whilst driving we anxiously scan the road for a place to stop before the engine blows up or a wheel falls off.
We pulled into a roadside garage and unexpectedly at an instant saw that the issue was low water in the radiator, so after letting it cool down and giving the Swiss wasps a chance to find us, we topped up the radiator reservoir and cleaned our hands with baby wipes (an essential item for any campervan owner).
Feeling more competent than my menial task warranted, I proudly pulled back onto the motorway and resumed our journey, semi-reassured that we’d resolved the issue.
Arriving at our campsite in Interlaken some hours later, we made our way to the lake and, as one, dove in letting the refreshing water wash over us, clearing away the last lingering doubts about Sandy’s ability to get us home, whilst taking in the vista of mountains that rose above us. It was a memory that no camera could improve on (although we still tried).
Swiss public transport gave us the opportunity to rest Sandy for a few days, whilst we headed up the Niederhorn and explored the local area, trying at every step not to buy anything in a country that seemed to look at a retail price in the UK and think ‘let’s multiply that by ten.’ We survived off supplies in the van and packed lunches that we made before heading out.
Sandy seemed to be okay after her rest, so we undertook the eight-hour drive to our next campsite in France and on arrival set up camp for a week of cheese and wine on the banks of the Ardeche.
A few days later it was time to stretch our legs and explore beyond our walking range, so we ran through the routine of disconnecting Sandy from our electric hook-up, stowing the bed, finding cupboard space for anything that needed to be secured, pulling the curtains and disconnecting the awning.
As usual, this checklist is fairly uneventful, and turning the key we were excited to explore, but as the engine fired up something sounded different. I wound down my window and leaned out to listen more closely and heard the unmistakable sound of a pump pumping…absolutely nothing. I opened her bonnet and pinpointed the sound and after checking the Haynes manual (see, I knew it would come in handy) realized we had a problem with our water pump.
Our hosts at the campsite informed us that no garages would be open for the next two days because it was a public holiday, so to sit tight and then they’d phone round for us, but they ‘knew a guy.’ Thankful for their local knowledge and recommendation, we reconnected Sandy (who still had to be our bedroom, kitchen and storage even if she couldn’t travel right now) and spent the next two days diving in the pool and devouring ice-creams.
At 9am on the day the garages opened I listened anxiously as our new friends at the campsite phoned six garages, each had a variation on: ‘Sorry, really busy for days, can’t squeeze you in.’
France in August is a lovely place for a holiday, but the majority of French people go on holiday for either some or all of the month, meaning that to do anything productive is a challenge. Something we’d never had to do before, but now we did their holiday-habits became slightly frustrating.
Phoning our breakdown company they said they’d send someone out — a friendly mechanic who turned out to be the spitting image of Danny Devito. He confirmed it was the water pump and something called une pulle, something we struggled to translate at the time and only later realized, rather obviously, was the pulley…no wonder my French teacher at school despaired of me!
The kindness of strangers
We have always believed that strangers are just friends that you haven’t met yet and this was proven this time and time again this holiday. Our French campsite neighbour came over and offered to translate between ‘French Danny’ and I, both of whom were trying hard in the others native tongue and failing dismally.
The mechanic told me that there was a garage to go to that could fix Sandy, so our neighbour, Deborah, translated the logistics and directions for me. Sandy and I limped to this garage, where a lackadaisical garage mechanic hoisted Sandy onto a ramp and showed me the leak and casually informed me it would take eight days to fix. We were due to leave our campsite the following day for Colmar and the current campsite was full for the foreseeable future; not only that but if Sandy was being fixed for eight days, then we were to be missing a kitchen, bedroom, wardrobe, cupboards and vehicle for the duration. ‘Ce n’est pas possible’ we were told when asking if it could be fixed faster, which can mean anything from ‘I can’t be bothered’ all the way through to ‘it’s not possible.’ Either way, this man was not shifting in his estimation and so Sandy was not shifting either.
But the kindness of strangers left us speechless and beyond grateful.
Deborah, who we barely knew conjured up a spare tent and blow-up mattress for us from the depths of her caravan and offered us transport to anywhere that we needed, plus the use of her kitchen and anything else she had. She might have been an angel (if angels are French Mothers with a VW Passat and large caravan). Maybe they are and maybe she was. Theology has never been my strong point.
On the way back from the garage our taxi driver took us to several ATM’s to get money to pay him. Each one was out of service and we only had a few Euros left in our pockets. ‘No problem. Just leave the money at the campsite reception when you checkout and we’ll pick it up next week.’ You don’t get that sort of service from a black cab back home!
The next day as we walked to the only ATM we could reach to get out some Euros, we discovered it was still broken and wouldn’t be fixed for days. Approaching the Tourist Information Office, we asked how to get cash without the use of a vehicle, the friendly young lady answered without hesitation ‘No problem, I’ll drive you to an open ATM myself.’ She left her desk and chauffeured us 10km down the road and back without thinking twice about it.
Our breakdown company then agreed to pay for a new campsite for five days (thanks AXA) until we were due to be on the ferry back home. Then when it was clear that Sandy couldn’t be fixed sooner, despite their best efforts to find another garage, they arranged a hire car back to Calais, where we walked onto a ferry, then got picked up at Dover and had another hire car to get us back to Cardiff. Sandy would either be fixed and we’d be flown back to France to pick her up at a later date, or she’d be put on a tow truck and sent back to Cardiff in disgrace.
The loss of Sandy could have ruined the holiday, but it forced us to look at the situation differently whilst involving the children in how to realign expectations and make the best of every situation.
As we looked around the town we were stranded in, with canoes dawdling down the river, sunlight glinting on the water, market sellers with fresh fruit and olives, bakeries with delicious croissants on display and my healthy family around me, I concluded that if we were to break down somewhere, this was probably the best hard shoulder imaginable and definitely the best service station in the world.
Sandy remains in France but should be back soon, marking it 4 weeks since she broke down. Our friendly Welsh mechanic, Dave, is poised ready to fix her; as we gradually lost confidence in the French garage after eight days had passed and they still hadn’t provided a quote or ordered parts, so she’s due to be towed back shortly and Dave will fix her ready for her next adventure.
Lessons from an interrupted road trip
So what did we learn? We learnt that a breakdown doesn’t need to spoil a holiday — although it certainly changes it. That the kindness of strangers is always there, but we’re often too immersed in our own worlds to need it or to look for it. That fear of something is worse than the reality of it actually happening. That mechanics courses are a good idea. We learnt that you can’t plan a good memory. The best and worst places to breakdown are French villages in the summer. Also, that it’s possible to adventure with children under 10 and think outside the box with holidays, just because it’s not commonly done it doesn’t mean it’s not possible.
As we reluctantly drove the children back to school the day after I returned, I wondered with sadness whether we couldn’t just keep driving and head back to Dover and then wherever the road leads us, but alas, every adventure needs some recovery time and space to plan the next one…
