The Great Escape (Without the Dogs)

Some journeys begin with a carefully planned itinerary. Ours began with the unsettling feeling that we’d forgotten something important.

It was only after we’d been on the road for nearly an hour that we realised what it was.

Silence.

Not the peaceful sort you dream about before a holiday, but the absence of three familiar canine soundtracks. No Labrador sighing dramatically because she’d been awake for fifteen whole minutes. No husky rearranging herself every five minutes. No long-legged lurcher insisting that wherever Dana’s feet happened to be was exactly where he needed to lie.

Bandit suddenly felt enormous.

At 11:45 on Friday 10 July 2026, we rolled away from Orchard Road, the odometer reading 183,485 miles, a full tank of diesel beneath us and the optimistic belief that driving across England in 34-degree heat would be perfectly manageable.

Bandit, however, had other ideas.

She has many admirable qualities. Air conditioning isn’t one of them.

Within half an hour we’d developed an elaborate ventilation strategy involving quarter-open windows, dashboard vents pointed hopefully in our general direction and frequent declarations that, “It’s definitely cooler now.”

It never was.

Three hours to Newhaven should have been straightforward, although we sensibly paused at Chobham Services for lunch and a chance to cool down. Even standing in a service station felt surprisingly refreshing compared with the campervan, which by this point resembled a small mobile greenhouse.

“I’m melting,” I announced.

Dana looked up from a pot of noodles she’d somehow managed to make look far more appealing than anything I’d chosen.

“You wanted sunshine.”

She had a point.

The further south we travelled, the more it felt like the holiday was slowly beginning. The roads became quieter, the sat-nav counted down the miles to the coast, and that familiar excitement started to build. Not the excitement of reaching the destination, but of finally leaving everyday life behind.

Leaving the dogs behind, however, had been much harder.

This trip we’d originally planned to bring Poppy, Lola and Douglas, just as we had four years earlier when we travelled through the south of France. They’d loved every minute of the adventure, but they hadn’t coped particularly well with the relentless Mediterranean heat. Looking at this year’s forecast, we knew it would be unfair to put them through it again.

Instead, Becki and Luke had stepped in to become temporary dog servants, helped by the grandsons Leo and Felix. Katja and Mum would also join them in during the three weeks we were away.

They were probably going to have as much fun as the dogs.

It was unquestionably the right decision.

It just didn’t stop us reaching for leads that weren’t there or wondering what the dogs would be making of the journey.

Ironically, our DFDS booking still proudly listed three pets travelling in the vehicle. Somewhere in the ferry company’s computer system, Poppy, Lola and Douglas were apparently tucked away in Bandit below deck, while in reality they were back in Wiltshire, no doubt already persuading someone to hand over another biscuit.

Newhaven itself always feels a little understated compared with Dover. There are no endless queues of freight lorries, no frantic rush of people trying to shave five minutes off their journey and none of the organised chaos that seems to accompany the cross-Channel ferries in Kent. Everything feels calmer, as though the ferry knows it’s going to France regardless, so there’s really no need to panic.

Our ferry was due to leave at 5pm, and after checking in with plenty of time to spare, Bandit - registration SWM111R - disappeared into the vehicle deck ready for the four-hour crossing to Dieppe.

We’d decided to treat ourselves this time.

Instead of spending the journey wandering between cafés and lounge seats, we’d booked a four-berth sea-view cabin. It felt wonderfully extravagant for just the two of us. Four bunk beds, a proper shower, crisp white bedding and a window looking out across the English Channel. Luxury, by ferry standards.

It also meant we could both properly switch off.

After the sticky drive through southern England, that shower felt magnificent. Somewhere between drying off and lying down for “just five minutes”, we both drifted into an afternoon nap that lasted rather longer than either of us intended.

Money well spent.

Our booking also included dinner in the self-service restaurant and, to our pleasant surprise, it was actually rather good. We carried our trays over to a window table and watched the Sussex coastline slowly disappear into the evening haze.

Best of all, because neither of us was driving, we could enjoy a drink together.

There’s something wonderfully liberating about sitting on a ferry with a cold beer in your hand, knowing your campervan is safely tucked away below deck and your only responsibility for the next few hours is deciding whether to have another coffee afterwards.

Every so often, though, one of us would glance instinctively towards the vehicle deck.

“The dogs will be alright,” one of us would say.

Then we’d both laugh.

The dogs weren’t there.

It was oddly reassuring to discover we weren’t the only people settling into holiday mode. Around us, conversations drifted between English and French, children explored every corner of the ship, and televisions quietly showed coverage of the World Cup.

Football, it seemed, was travelling with us.

Spain and France had both secured their places in the semi-finals, while our attention was already turning to Saturday evening when England would face Norway in the quarter-finals.

Naturally, the conversation quickly became less about football and more about timing.

“Imagine England beat Norway…”

“And France win their semi-final.”

“We could end up watching England play France… while we’re actually in France.”

Dana smiled over her drink.

“That could either be brilliant… or very quiet.”

It suddenly felt as though our holiday might have its own sporting subplot.

The four-hour crossing slipped by remarkably quickly. Between the shower, the nap, dinner and simply watching the sea roll gently past the cabin window, it was one of the most relaxing Channel crossings either of us could remember.

By the time the lights of Dieppe appeared just after 10pm, we felt as though we’d already had half a day’s holiday.

Driving off the ferry was another reminder of why we like arriving in Normandy so much. Within minutes you’re on quiet French roads instead of battling motorways or city traffic. The pace changes almost immediately.

An hour later we rolled into Rouen, Bandit’s odometer now reading 183,646 miles.

One hundred and sixty-one miles travelled.

One English county after another left behind.

One ferry crossing.

One shower.

One nap.

A couple of drinks.

Countless thoughts about three dogs who were perfectly happy hundreds of miles away.

The holiday had officially begun.

And somehow, despite crossing an entire stretch of sea, the biggest distance we’d travelled wasn’t measured in miles at all.

It was the moment everyday life disappeared over the horizon, leaving nothing ahead of us except three weeks of adventure, a campervan called Bandit, and the wonderfully uncertain promise of wherever the next road might lead.