Eurotrip Leg 1: London - La Rochelle

I probably could’ve spent another six months getting the van ready for an off-grid euro-expedition, but I was feeling impatient, and in dire need of change. I was trapped in a cycle of never ending improvements, which generally went something like: watch YouTube video by skilled carpenter or auto-technician on how to solve the problem, allocate one Sunday afternoon for completion, realise I don’t have the correct tools, order tools, wait a week for them to arrive, realise I’m not a skilled carpenter or auto-technician and make monumental cock-up, regret ever starting the project, repeat. So in a bid to escape, I booked a Sunday night ticket on the Eurotunnel, and decided ready or not, I’d figure it out on the road.

Sunday rolls around, and I awake with a blissful ‘hakuna matata’ mindset. Plenty of time to do a long run, clear out my room, fit a new bike carrier, pack the van and even take a few photos before its big outing, all before catching the train at 7:00pm. The hours ticked by, and if you were to have plotted my blood pressure against those hours on a graph, it would have resembled an exponential curve, my packing becoming ever more frantic as the deadline approached.

I ragged it down to Folkestone, praying the solar panels would stay put on the roof. As it happens I arrived with time enough to board an earlier train, rendering my panic completely pointless (as it always it I suppose). That panic was quickly replaced with dread, as I pulled up on the carriage and turned around in my seat to assess the sea of kit, haphazardly bunged into carrier bags, filling every square inch of floor space. It was a pretty uncomfortable first night to say the least. Pulled over in a quiet layby in a town just South of Rouen - which definitely looked like it was home to a serial killer - I set about clearing the chaos just enough to pull my bed out, my bike balanced precariously on one side (of course the roof carrier hadn’t gone to plan). I slept remarkably well considering, probably more through exhaustion than comfort.

If you’ve ever driven through France, you’ll understand what a silly idea that is, especially in the age of the low cost (albeit high carbon impact) flight. For a start the tolls are bloody extortionate. I’d be warned about this beforehand, but assumed it would amount to a couple of euros here and there, my only experience of a toll road being the Severn bridge back in the day. I practically did a double take when pulling up to the second gantry to find I owed 30 euros for what had been a 30 minute stretch of road. I think this comes down to the perceived pollution of your vehicle, but even in a lean green Tesla, you’d still have the annoyance of lying full stretch across the passenger seat to reach the payment machines built for left-hand drive cars. First world problems I know, but this really starts to grate after your 10th toll booth of the day.

Finding anything in the van for those first few days was a real chore. I was forever setting down my keys, only to forget where I placed them and spend 10 minutes looking for them. That would be my number 1 tip for life in a van: designate a space for every single possession you are carrying. This goes against my minimalist philosophy and means you’ll have to invest in stuff like drawer dividers and soap holders, but it will pay off in the long run.

Where was that sense of freedom I’d been sold, the liberation that comes with removing the shackles of rent and utilities? As far as I could see, the freedom was heavily confined to a slim selection of dodgy motorhome rest stops, and the shackles had been immediately replaced by the inconvenience of previously simple daily tasks. Brushing your teeth isn’t quite so easy when you have to wrestle with the pressure washer that’s blocking your toiletry bag (yes, I packed a pressure washer...yes, I'm aware how idiotic that sounds).

I needed to clear my head after a day of blitzing through France, so I found my trainers and went running into the night, no particular route or reason in mind, just grateful to be free from that bastard van for a moment at least. I remember running down a desolate country road, on one of those pitch black nights without even a hint of moonlight. I didn’t have a headtorch (for that would have taken at least an hour to fish out) so the only thing I could make out on this straight, seemingly endless road was the eerie silhouette of the trees, forming a tunnel around the tarmac. Bloody stupid idea in hindsight, but it was like a metaphor for the trip itself. A stupid idea that doesn't make any sense in the moment, but one that can only improve with time, until you emerge from the darkness to find exactly what it is you're searching for. Of course I could’ve been hit by car or savaged by a badger and that would’ve ruined the poetry of the moment entirely, but as it was, the tree line gave way to a cluster of rustic, typically French chateaus that you might find on a postcard if you were to holiday in the Dordogne. You know, the ones where the driveway is lined by those beech trees trimmed into cubes, and people are playing pétanque in a courtyard. I imagine they were absolutely stunning, but like I say it was pitch black so I couldn't see a thing - I’d used up all the daylight staring at anonymous stretches of motorway. Leg one had been pretty bleak, but I guess sometimes you've got to employ a bit of stoicism and trudge through the shit to enjoy golden beaches. To clarify, for anyone who's not read any earlier posts, this wasn't just me making a meal out a holiday. This was an experiment to see if this could be a viable way of life, whilst holding down a full time job in the process. It did go on to get a whole lot better, but in that moment I was yearning to return to the safe embrace of Surrey.