“We've got a problem,” my dad says. I ignore him. The sun is shining and the campsite is all to ourselves. I run back to the car and pull the caravan to a pretty courtyard plot next to an old farmhouse surrounded by fields beside the fast-flowing Lesbes river, at the southern end of the Loire Valley. Nothing to upset me about. After a freezing February night in the Pas-de-Calais where the campsite toilet was out of order, I'm excited to finally enjoy a little luxury. A hot shower awaits.
“The steering wheel is broken,” he says. Oh no. Maybe there's something to dampen my newfound euphoria. Day two and 500 miles into a 4,500-mile road trip, the caravan is already broken. It's not the end of the world; you can still drive it, just it'll be harder to park. But it's not an auspicious start to a difficult journey of four weeks in an old, tiny caravan with my dad and our dog. He never thought I was the one to travel with in my early 30s, but with me being single forever and all my friends claiming work and family responsibilities, no one else is brave (or stupid) enough to join me on this mission.
After a few minutes of debating how we could fix it (we couldn’t) and discussing with the campground receptionist where we could get it fixed (everywhere was closed), we decided to think about it another day and went to the quaint Ligueille for a cold beer instead. If there’s one thing my dad and I have in common, it’s our love of a strong, punchy beer that will undoubtedly come in handy in any sticky or stressful situations over the coming month.
Up until the last few years, my father and I have never been particularly close. We have many interests in common – lamenting the poor editing of Radio 4 news programmes, drinking the aforementioned beer and eating plenty of almost any food – but it was never the kind of relationship I'd have any say in. There is, after all, a limit to what a daughter should share with her father. But limits are meant to be tested, and sharing a tiny caravan on this trip would certainly test both of our limits.
Lottie and her dad in Palamos, Spain
Lottie Gross
We haven't traveled much together before. Aside from childhood family trips in France and Spain that took my brother and me to old churches and sprawling campsite complexes, and more recently, when my dad would take me on business trips for an overnight or two, we've never spent so much time in such small space. And it's really small: my 1996 Eriba Familia has an interior that's just two by four meters.
But this journey felt necessary, for me of course, and maybe for my father too. In 2022, my mother passed away at the age of 58. She was my best friend and reliable travel partner who accompanied me around the world, from Kenya to India to the windy hills of Wales, whenever I asked. When she succumbed to cancer just eight months after her diagnosis, a huge black hole opened in my heart, and the feeling of traveling never returned. In the first months and years after her death, everywhere I went felt a bit empty. Everything seemed for nothing.
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Nothing reminds us of the death of one parent like the death of the other, so with some persuasion and maybe a little emotional blackmail (“My mom never got to experience this, so let's do this in her honor”), I convinced my dad that it was his turn. I was going to be on the road for a few months researching dog-friendly travel guides, and my dad had to become my travel buddy before it was too late. He dutifully took a month off, we hitched up the camper, loaded our dog in the trunk, and hit the road.
Port and canal of the Rhône
Alamy
The next day in San Sebastian, Spain, with our broken jockey wheel problem solved thanks to a friendly campground manager, we went into town, had some beers, and tried pintxos for the first time. We'd driven three days from home just for this little Spanish snack. We'd bar-hopped all weekend, savored sea urchin, barbecued pork spare ribs, and tangy chorizo. We'd watched dogs chase balls and get covered in sand, laughed for hours on the city beach, drank more beer than we should have, and had to walk up to Mount Urgull to finish it all off. Mount Urgull offered amazing views of the city and a chance to sober up before heading back to the campsite.
At our next destination, Lavra, Portugal, we swapped beer for wine as we set off from a coastal campsite for a guided minibus tour of the dog-friendly vineyards of the Douro. As I sat on a terrace overlooking a croft vineyard near the riverside town of Pinhão, my Manchester terrier, Artie, dozed off on the heated patio. Feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and watching my dad sample different ports, I knew I had done the right thing. This was absolutely necessary, and I can safely say it had absolutely nothing to do with the wine I drank.
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I soon settled in and started to feel like I was traveling with a good friend, although I must correct those who, embarrassingly, refer to my father as their husband. The days passed, our destinations flew by, and we managed to avoid further caravan disasters, although in Andalusia I got food poisoning from chicken and spent three days in bed. My father was back in parental mode, bringing me fresh oranges and offering his sympathies.
By the time we got to Barcelona, ​​we were ready to escape the four walls of our caravan, so we checked into the Nobu Hotel for some luxury. Our room had a great city view and even provided a dog bed, but our standards for luxury are low at the moment, and we were happy with just a private bathroom and a smart TV.
Two people in Lavra, Portugal
The whole trip was remarkably trouble-free, and it was only in the final few days back in France that tensions rose. “Left, left, left! No, right! Right! Keep right!” I shouted at my dad, as we steered our new temporary fibreglass boat past a large maintenance barge on the Rhône-à -Sette Canal. There are plenty of moments when you get lost, but not when you're drifting towards a shallow, rocky riverbed. But after three sleep-deprived weeks in a tiny caravan, they happen. It all starts to feel a bit fuzzy.
After 45 tense minutes, we both breathed a sigh of relief as we pulled through the looming locks in our rented Le Boat (delighted with the luxury of two separate bedrooms and bathrooms). On the last night of the trip, winds reached 50 mph and rain pounded against the windows. The gloom outside mirrored the mood inside. We both felt sad that the experience was coming to an end.
It was a completely different journey than the one I'd taken with my mother, but my dad still managed to turn out to be a true adventurer. As we sipped our last beer overlooking the flamingo-filled wetlands of the Camargue, I told him how pleasantly surprised I was that we'd managed to survive, and even thrive, on this journey. But when he flew home the next day and I returned alone to the caravan, I realized I needn't have worried.
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Of course we'll be fine. My dad is the reason I crave this kind of travel. His mum hiked to Everest base camp at 60 and retired to travel around the world with Thomas Cook, and his travel obsession led him to join the merchant navy at 18. He now lives on a narrowboat and spends his summers as a nomad on the Thames. I think it's from him that I keep on moving. So, Dad, where shall we go next?
Lottie Gross was a guest of Caravan and Motorhome Club (caravanclub.co.uk), which offers campsites across the UK and Europe from £15; Explore Iberia (exploreiberia.pt), which offers private tours of the Douro Valley from £90 per person; Nobu Hotel in Barcelona (barcelona.nobuhotels.com), which offers B&B double rooms from £159; and Le Boat (leboat.co.uk), which offers seven-night self-catering accommodation for five people at Horizon 1 in the Camargue from £2,689.
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