Every year of my early childhood, my family would pack up a campervan and head to France, Switzerland or Austria for the long summer break. Locked in my memory are the scents of Calor gas, frying bacon and pine needles. I also vividly remember mornings lying in a hammock under the extendable roof, sunlight creeping through the striped awning, the kettle whistling and the clatter of olive green tupperware.
But it could be gruelling too: covering hundreds of miles in a few weeks, feeling car sick, breaking down on motorways. My mum used to joke that she needed a proper holiday to recover.
