I never had a gap year. I lurched from med school to work life to parenthood, watching friends and children gallivant to ski slopes and South-east Asia. Well, now it’s my turn. Too many holiday cancellations and days in (weeks, months) during lock down drove a full-on mid life crisis- so, from April 2022 me and Mr G are taking a gap yah.
We’ve got parents, daughters and a very needy dog in the UK, so instead of disappearing with a backpack and our parents’ credit cards like most gap-yah-ers we’re planning a series of mini adventures. In between, we’ll pop back to catch up with loved ones, wash our pants, and cobble together the cash to keep on going.
First up is our big van trip. We’re taking our VW camper van on a road trip to Istanbul, starting on Friday ( did I hear you cry April fools?) We’re taking ten weeks to get there and back- heading out through northern Europe, Romania and Bulgaria then back through the Balkans and southern Europe. We’ll be stopping for an #IceColdinIstanbul halfway. Mr G is keen on taking it as it comes and going with the flow- but I’m more of a planner. Think Monica from Friends, but a bit more anal. I’ve got the spreadsheets, the Bond-villain style map with push pins and many, many, many colour-coded packing cubes.
If one of us comes back alone, start digging up patios in Turkey!
We said a sad adios to San Sebastian and headed for the ferry home. Everyone (and when I say everyone, Justin I’m really looking at you) always tells us that the boat journey is part of the holiday, like a mini cruise. the problem is, unless we’re in control of the vessel me and Mr G often feel like hostages on boats. Once, we even jumped off a river boat cruise at a lock in Reading and got the train home! So, perhaps not the cleverest idea to book the ferry home- but after so many miles on the motorway, we couldn’t face the schlep to the channel tunnel.
Big mistake! They’ve slowed down the ferry to save money/the environment and it now takes a gazillion hours (well it says 36 but, believe me, it feels like more) across a verrrrrrrrrrrrrry choppy Bay of Biscay. We had fun on a windy deck at sunset but otherwise I worked and Mr G moaned and asked if we were nearly there yet!
Our last stop on our big adventure was the beautiful Basque city of San Sebastian. We’d tried to stop in the city in 2021 for an al fresco lunch en route to Monaco. Reader, we failed. The narrow streets, pedestrianised areas and one way roads left me squealing and Mr G tearing out his last hair with frustration.
This time we were prepared. We parked the teal-mobile in a little campervan-only parking lot/campsite on the outskirts of San Sebastian, which was way cheaper than any of the car parks. After doing battle with the pay and display we headed to hotel heaven in the old town.
After all those weeks a deux, we met up with some great friends for our final weekend of pintxos and fun. The Patmores were looking all holiday chic and fabulous, we were looking like… well, a couple in the midst of a mid-life crisis who needed to pay more attention to personal grooming! However, a complimentary glass of champagne, enormous bed, fluffy robes, Bic razor and many, many scented toiletries later we were fully deforested and ready to venture out on the town.
Pintxos please
San Sebastian is known as one of the world’s top foodie capitals and the restaurants lived up to their billing. The city is famous for its pintxos- small finger foods that are typically served in bars throughout the Basque Country. They’re similar to tapas, but tend to be smaller and have classically been served on a small slice of bread, although modern pintxos are more varied and not quite as relentlessly carby. Julie found an incredible pintxos tour around the old town, with a guide ensuring we visited the best taverns, bypassed the hovering hordes to get tables, and selected the signature dishes from each chef. It was an extraordinary exploration of the local food culture, so many delicious and diverse morsels. Previously I’ve never known what to order, so sampling pintxos seemed like a bit of a bushtucker trial. This really took the guesswork out of it, and with local wine, beer and fizz with friends it was the perfect way to end ‘Ice cold in Istanbul.’
Cheers and thanks for the good times!
Quick hotel comment: We stayed in the Lasala Plaza in the heart of the old town.
The good bits: It was a beautiful building in a perfect location with stunning sea views. There was a fabulous rooftop pool and bar- the perfect spot for a spritz in the sun.
The bad bits: There was quite a bit of a sunbed hogging, with many occupied for hours by lone towels and the odd bottle of sun-cream. It was also over budget, well over budget. In fact it was the most significant below-the-line-exceptional-expense of the trip, and as you may have noticed, there have been a few of those. Suffice to say as well as being slow with blogging, I may have overlooked my spreadsheet duties when in San Seb. I can’t even share the costs here, because I may have glossed over some of the finer financial details with Mr G. Mr G, if you’re still reading- don’t panic! I took on a work project to finish on the ferry home which helped me cook balance the books.
A bit of WFV- working from the van to pay for our indulgent weekend!
If you’re still out there, hello! Life, work and apathy caused a bit of an umm…hiatus in the blog. But I’m printing a photobook of #IceColdinIstanbul to put in Mr G’s birthday stocking, so I’ve dug out my diary, scrolled through my photos and flexed my typing fingers -all two of them! Here’s the final few days of our van adventure:
Our penultimate stop took us right back to our very first campsite on foreign soil. On our 2021 ‘Monte Carlo or Bust’ trial road trip we started on the beach in Biarritz, and even after trying countless sites across Europe the Pavilion Royale is still right at the top of the charts when it comes to quality. Which is good because it’s also reassuringly expensive.
The Atlantic coast of France is wild, windy and wavy. I’m a Gower girl originally and the surf and beach life feel a lot like home, just warmer, sunnier and with that French je ne sais quoi.
Across Europe, most of the sites have been packed with big white RVs and conversions of bigger vans like the Fiat Ducato or Mercedes Sprinter- the sort of vans with the luxury of permanently erected beds, an onboard garage for all your stuff, and, most importantly, loos and showers. VW campervans were rare, and now we know why. It’s not because nobody with half a brain would spend ten weeks in such a small van with so few facilities, oh no, it’s because all the VW transporters are parked up in Biarritz filled with effortlessly cool surfers and a sprinkling of middle-aged wannabees like us.
Our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!
Surfs up!
On the final day it was all rather more Bridlington than Biarritz. The weather gods must have decided to send in the storms to help us acclimatise to life back home. Thoughtful of them. Our very last night in the van featured dry robes, blue lips and our soggiest barbeque of the whole ten weeks. We did wonder if we’d have just turned around and thrown in the (soaking wet) towel if we’d done the trip in reverse.
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at Pavilion Royale in Bidart, a short hop down the coast from Biarritz. My brother and his family recommended it, and having slavishly copied his campervan purchase and his Exploria conversion, we were very happy to follow the Morrises like sheep yet again!
The good bits: Location, location, location! Pavilion Royale is right on the beach and has all mod cons: lovely café with ridiculously cheap carafes of rose, pool, shop, excellent showers, gym and spa. There are a couple of gorgeous beach bars a 5-10 minute walk down the beach. There’s also a convenient nudist beach, but me and Mr G kept our cossies firmly on (topped with a hoodie, waterproof and woolly hat much of the time.)
The bad bits: It’s not cheap at 47.50 per night and sometimes you need miles of cable to reach the hook up. We were close by this time, but last year we had to rely on solar power.
This was Carcassonne-part un, with the storm doing wonderful stuff to my hair!
We went to Carcassonne on our trial van trip last year. It wasn’t our best planned pit-stop. We drove away from glorious sunshine in Biarritz and headed into the Pyrenees, blithely ignoring the flashing storm warnings on roadsigns en-route. To be honest my French is a little rusty, and Mr G struggles with anything more than ordering a beer-but neither of us could fail to understand the driving rain, the thunder and sheet lightening when we pulled into Carcassonne. We also couldn’t miss the campsite manager’s severe expression. She told us it was too dangerous to leave the campsite and showed us to a hut should we need to evacuate our van!
All that meant that all we saw of Carcassonne was a waterlogged campsite on a grim trading estate on the very outskirts of the city. We escaped just after dawn, when there was a short break in the storm, having not even seen a glimpse of the historic fortress. Yesterday we tried again. So, here it is, Carcassonne, the sequel.
We’d learned from our mistakes and obsessively checked four different weather apps before heading into the mountains. We also picked a campsite close to the centre, which meant that we could see the magnificent fortified citadel as we approached the site. There was a lovely, leafy walk along the river to get to the city gates.
We’ve seen plenty of castles and walled cities and have a little bit of sightseers’ ennui. It’s fair to say we were sluggish and a bit blasé as we climbed up to the fortress. But Carcassonne is genuinely mind blowing. For a hilltop citadel it’s absolutely enormous, with a labyrinth of squares and narrow cobbled streets, like The Shambles in York or Diagon Alley- but on steroids.
We walked the ramparts. Those ancient Carcassonnites ( I’m sure that’s wrong but Google wasn’t my friend here) really knew something about security. There’s layer upon protective layer: castle, moats, towers and loads of vantage points for firing arrows, rolling stones or pouring boiling oil. It’s been described as the biggest and best medieval fortress in Europe, and it’s definitely got my vote. Mr G is still staring admiringly over the ramparts, so I think he agrees.
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at Camping de la Cite which was perfectly located only a 20 minute yomp to the Porte d’Aude.
The good bits: This is probably the best city centre camping we’ve had. Great location, helpful staff, spacious pitches with well-established hedges for privacy and a good café for take away coffees and pastries in the morning. €24 including electric.
The bad bits: The wifi was iffy, but to be honest it’s rarely great so we’re pretty numb to that after nine and a half weeks.
Betty Blue is a French arthouse film from the eighties that Mr G and I were very taken with when we were students going through our arty and pretentious cinema phase. The titular character, played by a very luscious and alluring Beatrice Dalle has an affair with a struggling writer who lives in a chalet on stilts on the beach. It’s very dark, erotic and moody-and the beach, the huts and the people are all impossibly cool. Hoping some of that would rub off on us, we decided to park up in the Mediterranean coastal town of Gruissan to walk in Betty’s footsteps.
In early June, Gruissan was still pretty quiet and there was a very different vibe at the campsite. Instead of swarms of sixty-something German couples in motorhomes it was a younger Frencher crowd. The whole area seemed more chilled and hip. We were allocated a beachfront pitch and were VERY smug indeed. What a view!
The Plages des Chalets was gorgeous; long, wide and sandy. The huts were proper houses on stilts- and there were loads of them. Some immaculately painted in nautical colours, others remained wooden, rickety and fading- just like Betty’s place. We walked miles down the boardwalk and then had lunch on the beach. Not a bad way to spend the Jubilee.
Mr G was very taken with Gruissan. He kept drifting towards estate agent windows, shopping for the perfect chalet. Maybe he hoped Betty Blue would come swaying out of the sea. Sadly, the humidity, wind and van-life have left me rather more Worzel Gummidge than Beatrice Dalle- but at least I haven’t gouged my eye out. Not yet anyway- and only four more nights in the van to go.
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at LDL camping on the beach four miles out of Gruissan.
The good bits: We had an amazing pitch, really big and right on the beach. The showers and loos were excellent and there was a decent shop and cafe/bar. Only €23 which is excellent for a site in the South of France.
The bad bits: The Wifi only worked in the reception and restaurant areas. The whole place was a bit of a megalopolis with water slides, multiple pools and permanent mobile homes. Luckily we were tucked away from much of the melee but it could be very noisy and busy further back from the beach.
When Mr G imagined the Camargue he pictured hordes of white horses thundering along a beach, a bit like a natural and more authentic Guinness ad. Turns out that in the summer months the only wildlife that thunders around the Camargue in packs is the mossies and midges.
Of course, I should have known. My lovely friend Philippa is my official expert on all things French. When asked about the Camargue she gently tried to steer us in a different direction, describing it as ‘nice, in a swampy and flamingo-y way.’ Which clearly means it’s mossie-central for anyone foolish enough to visit on a muggy day in June. Wisely, she went in January.
Mosquitos usually love me, so I am irritatingly jumpy when they whine past my ear. Mr G is very easy-breezy and relaxed about them. I sprayed myself and the van relentlessly, then covered up in acres of white linen and aggressively swatted anything that came nearby. As I’m sure you can imagine, it was wonderfully restful for us both.
Just need to add the gloves and bee-keepers hat and veil now!
Ironically, as I was covered and sprayed, the mossies turned to the all-you-can-eat buffet next to me. As I type, Mr G is scratching one of the fifty or so bites on his legs. Mwahahahaha!
Don’t let old Scrooge here put you off- The Camargue is very beautiful. The salt ponds were stunning shades of pink, the wetland landscape is glorious and we did see groups of black bulls and white horses quietly grazing. Wild? Well, they were a bit cross that we’d interrupted their lunch.
The closest we came to a flamingo was at our campsite- but I’ve shared Philippa’s pic to show what proper Camargue explorers see!
Guess which photo I took?
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at Camping Crin Blanc a three star campsite in the Camargue National Park.
The good bits: Big, leafy pitches, a lovely pool and restaurant/bar and plenty of mosquito spray for sale at reception. Only €22.
The bad bits: The loos and showers were mixed, with open urinals outside the shower cubicles. All very modern and French, but not really for me! You had a swarm of midges and mossies around your head, or dive bombing your drink/coffee at all times. If you go, pick your time carefully.
We left the Camargue a day early to follow one of Philippa’s other recommendations. We went for lunch in the picture-perfect Provencale village of Eygaliere. We sipped rose, watched the glamorous people go by, and ate one of the best salads ever- and not a mossie in sight!
After a few weeks of pretty consistently good weather, our luck ran out around midnight on our final night in Lake Bled. Since then, the storms have been chasing us west across Europe. Our next stop was meant to be Lake Annecy, but the forecast predicted days and days of heavy rain, and we’ve had enough of that. We decided to follow the sun instead of our schedule. I know- look at us being all flexible and spontaneous!
We headed south to the western part of the Italian Riviera, where the forecasters promised sun, sun and more sun. In an unprecedented turn of events, the forecasters were right. The mercury hit 28 degrees, we even had to dig the van fan out of storage.
We explored the French Riviera last year as part of a test trip to see if we could hack van life, and more importantly, tolerate each other at such close quarters for a prolonged period. It was gorgeous and glamorous but waaayyyyy too expensive for this trip, so we decided to explore some places that were a little less chi-chi.
The roads were so narrow, only scooters and these cute little three-wheelers could get through
Cervo was a pretty hillside village about half an hour from Nice. It’s less popular than other Ligurian resorts like Cinq Terres and Portofino, but is also made up of closely packed houses in sunshine colours and shares a similar, stunning, coast line. The beach area was very sleepy-seaside-resortish , like an Italian version of Margate off-season. We climbed up to the old village and had a wonderful lunch looking down at the Med towards Corsica. We’ve added the whole Ligurian coastline to our, now very lengthy, list of places we want to come back to explore in the future.
Quick snack for Mr G
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at Camping del Mare, on the coast between the old village of Cervo and the more modern marina.
The good bits: Good seafront location, decent showers and WiFi, nice little minimarket and an OK price for the Med at €31 a night.
The bad bits: You couldn’t really see the sea and the pitches were pretty closely packed. Worse, there were big groups of German RVers drinking and singing eighties Europop hits like 99 Luftballons and Da Da Da late into the night. Out of tune. Look, I was a big Nena fan back in the day but enough was enough!
When we planned our big trip we bravely/rashly arranged it around our thirtieth wedding anniversary. Maybe it was the do or die approach. Mr G thought that if we could manage ten weeks in a campervan without killing/maiming/ abandoning each other on a cliff-face in Albania then we’d really earn a long service medal an anniversary celebration.
Well, we’ve done it. There were no jewels to mark the occasion, but we did spend a couple of days in a lovely hotel in Bellagio, a town known as the Pearl of Lake Como. Very appropriate. There were a few moments of tension navigating the van down some incredibly narrow pedestrianised streets to get to the hotel- but when we rounded the final hairpin bend and parked up on the seafront all that was forgotten.
Room with a view (of the van!!)
I think all the cool Italians from Harry’s Bar have moved to Bellagio. I don’t blame them; the people were elegant, the shops were stylish and the food was just what you’d expect- fresh, tasty and fabulous. The weather was more Bridlington than Bellagio, but yet again we pulled out the puffers and dry-robes and had a wonderful time on a boat nosey-ing around the posh lakeside villas. Just the kind of intellectually stimulating day trip I love!
Carlo
Carlo, our skipper- Armani jeans, 200k speedboat and a habit of ignoring everything Mr G said and directing all conversation to me- gave us a full low down on who lived where and how much they paid for their villas. Sadly George and Amal were nowhere to be seen. I’d guess that, with the cost of living crisis, he’s probably away filming to get enough money to cover his heating bills, which must be pretty damn chompy.
Who let this idiot loose at the helm?
When we got back to the hotel our lovely girls had arranged for a card and a bottle of fizz to be delivered to our room- trophy daughters!
Quick hotel comment:
I’m afraid I’m going to have to gush about the Hotel Florence. When I was looking for hotels in the Italian Lakes they were either average, or so expensive I had to quickly click off the page before I got sucked in.
The Hotel Florence was in a beautiful Belle Epoque building right on the seafront in Bellagio and was price on application, so I assumed it was way out of our league. In the end we got a great room overlooking the lake for €195 a night, including a delicious breakfast. Which was acceptable as a below-the-line-exceptional-expense for our anniversary.
The good bits: Beautiful historic building, stunning location, parking outside and genuinely lovely staff. All this and a 10% discount for cash- don’t you just love the Italians?
The bad bits: If we’re being picky I’d have liked a bathrobe and a coffee machine but we’ve got those in the van, so no problemo!
Thirty years ago we went to Venice on our honeymoon, so we couldn’t resist a flying visit to the city on the road from Bled to Bellagio. This time we were vanning it, so instead of a historic hotel on a canal we were tucked away on a campsite at the back of a trading estate. Oh, the glamour!
The lovely ladies at Camping Rialto told us that things had suddenly become manic since Italy released most of their Covid restrictions. She wasn’t wrong, Venice was as packed as, well, Venice- but Venice at its most frenetic during Carnivale.
We revisited some old haunts including the iconic Harry’s Bar. When we went in 1992, we remember the bar as elegant and relaxed. We sat at the bar sipping Bellinis, nibbling olives and feeling glamorous. Around us, stylish Italians were chatting, drinking and lunching. I said that the food looked delicious and snacky. Reader, we ate there the next evening and it was indeed delicious, but EYE-WATERINGLY expensive. The photo we took of Mr G holding an empty wallet still makes me chuckle.
1992 and 2022- is it me or van-life that’s ageing Mr G?
This time Harry’s Bar was a disappointment. It was full of British tourists ( I know, I know hello kettle, you’re black) perusing photocopied bits of paper listing the cocktails. It still served Bellinis and it was still eye-wateringly expensive, but there the similarities stopped. Where were the leather bound menus with no prices for the precious ladies? Where were the skinny Italian women in Dolce and Gabbana smoking and pushing pasta around their plates? Where was the style?
We still had fun reminiscing. After Mr G finished his bucket of gin with a splash of tonic, we recreated the old photo, and went to eat in a small Osteria, tucked away on one of the back canal bridges. We sat inside overlooking the bridge, eating delicious Frittura Mista and watching an electrical storm rage down over Venice. Even better, Mr G was left with a few Euros in his wallet for our thirtieth wedding anniversary trip to Bellagio on Lake Como tomorrow.
Quick campsite comment:
We stayed at Camping Rialto, a very decent city campsite only ten minutes by bus from central Venice.
The good bits: It had a very convenient location, lovely friendly staff, clean facilities, a nice café and a swimming pool. All that for just €23.
The bad bits: The pitches were a little tightly packed but for city centre camping in Venice we thought this place was excellent value.
Grown-up Gap Yah 