During the sleet of midwinter, my husband Tom and I planned a holiday. So did everyone in the country that week, I expect, considering the festive memories of December were fading like condensation on a wet car window. I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than travelling around France in our van – a country I’ve only ever seen in passing, never stopping for more than a can of Monster at a service station.
Our camper van is self-converted. Tom works for a camper conversion company, which is handy for me, because I got a beautiful bespoke place to stay out of the white workers’ van I bought in 2023. If you’re not convinced that campervan living is for you, let me tell you two things: firstly, there is a fridge in the vehicle, meaning you have access to ice-cold Diet Coke whenever you want, and secondly, I have never had a better night’s sleep. There is something about the bed being the size of the room that makes me feel like a fuzzy little bird in a nest. So, we chose to travel for five weeks, longer than either of us had ever done before on the road, mainly to see if we could, but also to microdose freedom for a little while.
