You ever get to the end of something and think—did that actually happen? Like your brain’s still playing catch-up with your body. That’s how I felt, wandering round my friends flat in Germany on the last day of my trip away, the kind of tired that settles into your bones. Oktoberfest had wrapped up. The van keys were in my pocket. And all I could think was: how the hell did I get here? Not just geographically—but, y’know, here.
This wasn’t just a trip. It was my first proper solo run across borders. First time taking the van on a ferry. First time trusting nothing but gut instinct, patchy phone signal, and a handful of apps. It was messy, unplanned, sometimes ridiculous—but it was mine.
Autobahn Blues and Sat-Nav Lies
The last seven days had been an absolute blur — messy, bold, unplanned chaos stitched together by ferry crossings, half-mad ideas, and my orange van pushing stubbornly forward. It wasn’t just travel; it was something deeper. I’d crossed the width of Wales, the width of England, booked a ferry for the first time in my life, and rolled off in Calais with no clue where I was heading. That lack of a plan — that was the point. But bloody hell, it’s hard to explain how freeing and unsettling that can feel at the same time.
Not long after France came Belgium. Somewhere near an off-brand theme park that looked like it’d been shut since the ’90s. Found a sleep spot using one of those apps, you know the type. Nothing glamorous — just somewhere that let me crash without hassle. Drove for hours the next day, scenery blurring by, that wired-but-numb feeling setting in.
Managed to order food at a motorway stop where nobody spoke English. Felt like a win. It’s a strange moment when you realise how much you rely on the same words every day, and how far a point and a hopeful smile can get you. Found another campsite, another app suggestion — starting to trust those a bit too much maybe.
And then came the classic cock-up. Near my destination, or so I thought. Pulled in, thinking I’d nailed it. Turned out I was miles off — totally wrong address. But eventually, Munich happened. I did Oktoberfest solo. Got absolutely soaked. Stared down by groups who clearly thought I was mad. But I pushed through, wandered English Gardens, found some band in the city centre that was so good it felt staged. There was loads more I didn’t vlog — too much to film, not enough brain to keep up with it all.
And then… the return. Or at least, the attempt.
The Big Departure and the Broken Sat Nav Promises
Back at the flat, I was stalling. Pacing the corridor like some indecisive ghost, trying to figure out the route home while pretending I had options. Should I head straight to Calais? Divert to Ghent? Stop off in Brussels? Push on to London? I toyed with Switzerland for all of five seconds before realising I hadn’t even packed properly, let alone planned a detour through the Alps.
Me being me, I faffed about for another hour before finally heading back to the van.
I had one last errand: beer. German beer, obviously — the good stuff. Seemed like a crime to come all this way and not stock up. There was an off-licence just round the corner. Sorted. Except… it was shut. Typical. Luckily the supermarket was still open, so I did what any respectable Brit abroad does and panic-bought provisions I wasn’t proud of. And I can’t lie — looking at what I’d picked up, there was a real moment of, “is this what I’m driving 700 miles with?”
Half seven at night and I still hadn’t left. And here’s the honest bit: I didn’t know where I was going. Genuinely. I’d been watching the traffic all day, seeing the estimated journey swing between seven and nine hours, depending on what app you looked at. Eventually I gave in, loaded up Waze, and set off. The garage was literally around the corner — two minutes, tops. Except both Waze and Apple Maps decided to throw a wobbly. Sent me completely the wrong way. What should’ve been a 120-second cruise turned into a 15-minute loop of frustration and muttering at my dashboard.
Then came the sting: €2.13 a litre for diesel. I should’ve hunted around. I knew I should’ve. But I’d wasted enough time already. That was becoming the theme of the night.
Once I’d finally escaped the local spaghetti junction, the Autobahn greeted me like a brick wall of tarmac and tail lights. Seven hours of this? Brilliant.
Part 3: Midnight Bovril and That Creeping Feeling of Regret.
Less than half an hour in, and I already regretted setting off.
Should’ve waited. Should’ve just got some kip and left in the morning. But no — I was now barrelling down the Autobahn in the dark, eyes gritty, sat-nav whispering sweet nothings like, “Still seven hours to go…” Not a tree or mountain or quaint village to distract me. Just endless road and the buzz of poor decisions echoing in my head.
At half ten I pulled over. No idea where I was — some service station, decent little spot. I’d been driving for maybe two and a half hours, maybe three. I’ll stick the actual time up on the screen later. What I do know is that my head was buzzing and my body was already threatening to shut down.
And this is where things started to wobble.
I didn’t have a plan. Still. Brussels? Ghent? Push all the way through to the UK? I thought I’d stop for half an hour, just chill, figure it out. But the second I stopped, the whole buzz vanished. You know that adrenaline that keeps you going, mile after mile? Gone. Just hit me — hard. I was absolutely knackered.
Midnight rolled around. I’d spent the last hour half-walking, half-staring at my van like it owed me answers. Decided to eat. Dug out a stash of emergency food I’d forgotten I had — Bovril. Haven’t had that in years. Powdered gravy in a mug. Iconic, depressing, oddly comforting. It claimed to be 2.7% beef stock powder and 97.3% mystery effort. Had it with a bit of German ham and cheese. Not exactly a feast, but it hit the spot.
And yeah — I’m fully aware that every YouTuber would’ve done some lovely montage bits here. Cooking music. Close-ups. Steam rising from some enamel mug. Instead, you get me, in a van, halfway through nowhere, sipping half-hearted beef tea and wondering if I’d lost the plot entirely.
This was one of those moments where I stopped and thought: Has anyone else done this? Just… made Bovril in the middle of Germany? I sat there in the dark, not laughing, not crying, just… there.
I figured I’d squeeze in another hour or two of driving. Maybe aim for Ghent. One year on from doing this route the first time — a kind of full circle. That was the plan. A soft landing.
But of course, nothing’s ever that simple.
Part 4: Fuel Panic and a Slow Descent Into Madness
It was around 1:50 in the morning when things really started to slide sideways.
I’d told myself I’d reach the campsite by half three. That seemed doable — ambitious, but not ludicrous. Except now, sat there on the verge of delusion, the ETA on the sat-nav had crept to five in the bloody morning. How? No idea. Genuinely. I’d been moving, making progress, keeping up a decent pace. And yet, the road had other ideas. I was slipping backwards in time. A nap might have been involved, genuinely can’t remember and a stark reminder to enjoy the moment in life and not just plough on.
And then the low fuel light came on.
Tried one petrol station — closed. Dead. Another? No idea if it even existed or if Waze had just made it up. There was that cold, rising dread in my chest — not full-blown panic, but that slow throb of you’re running out of options, mate. I had the money. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was finding somewhere, anywhere, to actually spend it.
Why didn’t I stop earlier? Why didn’t I fill up near Munich when I had the chance? Why didn’t I just sleep and do all this with a working brain?
There were signs, occasionally — little “P” layby symbols with arrows pointing into the dark. I’d see them, hesitate, then miss the turn because it was pitch black and I couldn’t tell if it was a proper stop or someone’s farm track. Every time I passed one I’d get more frustrated. More tired. More aware that I was now driving in the kind of state where mistakes creep in.
The van was fine. The van was always fine. But I wasn’t.
I started talking to myself — not in a jokey, ha-ha vlog kind of way, but in that muttering, slightly desperate tone. Like, “Alright, just crack on, another hour… find a stop… keep going.” I kept thinking: I should be there by now. I should be asleep, parked up, kettle on. Instead, I was out here with nothing but ghostly lorries and the glow of tail lights, looking for a place that just wasn’t appearing.
At one point, I turned off the Autobahn — finally. Park4Night had flagged a campsite nearby, so I aimed for that. Got there. It existed. That was a start. But as I pulled in, the only sign of life was someone in the office doing paperwork. They left just as I arrived. Just gone. Gone in the same way the last bit of my patience went.
I sat there in the driver’s seat, engine ticking, head in my hands. Didn’t even feel dramatic — it just felt done.
Part 5 – Desperation Stops and Waking Up in a Toilet Layby
By the time I found somewhere — somewhere — it was quarter past three.
Not the scenic kind of spot you see in all those polished vanlife videos. No mountain backdrop, no lake, no morning birdsong queued up. Just a bit of tarmac in a place called Gründorf. I’d picked it purely out of desperation. Sleep had won. Nothing else mattered.
I was annoyed. Genuinely gutted. I’d lost over an hour and twenty minutes just driving in circles, trying to find fuel, trying to find somewhere safe to stop. All those tiny decisions earlier — skipping the earlier services, trusting Waze, even getting out of the van for a Bovril — they all stacked up into this weird domino chain that left me here: shattered, pissed off, and questioning the entire trip.
When you’re that tired, you don’t think in straight lines. You’re just reacting. I’d gone full tunnel vision — drive, stop, fuel, stop, something, anything — but the world just wasn’t playing ball.
And then, like that, it was morning.
Well… sort of. I woke up to half a cup of tea. I’d only put in enough water to brew a toddler’s serving. Eyes dry. Brain fogged. And the surroundings? Rough.
This wasn’t one of those “hidden gem” park-ups. This was a utility layby that doubled up, apparently, as the spot where truckers came to… erm… relieve themselves. Up there, by that grassy patch I’d thought about wandering up to for a quiet morning walk? Yeah, that was the designated pee zone. Classy.
And here’s the thing. Every other YouTuber wakes up looking like they’ve had a spa treatment. Morning light streaming in. Bit of acoustic guitar in the background. Hair tousled but perfect. Meanwhile, here’s me — bagged eyes, crusty kettle, and the kind of soul-weariness that makes your bones ache.
I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore. Belgium? UK? Stay another night? Head home? Part of me felt like the whole trip had fizzled out the second I left Munich. Another part just didn’t want to let the road win.
Part 6 – The Long Way Back and Letting the Dust Settle
There’s a weird kind of silence the morning after a night like that. Not peaceful, not comforting — just blank. I sat with that half-cup of tea, staring out at this nothing spot in Gründorf, trying to figure out whether to push on or pack it in.
The sat-nav said three hours to get where I’d planned to be. Yesterday it had said two hours forty-five. The longer I drove, the further away the finish line seemed to get. Classic.
Eventually, I did what I always do: cracked on.
More motorways. More thinking. My brain was chewed up by then, replaying little bits of the last week like glitchy memories. The ferry. The wrong addresses. That first proper solo Oktoberfest, soaked to the skin and getting daggered by the eyes of strangers. The band in Munich. Ordering food in broken English and gesturing like a mime with no pride left. Bovril in the middle of the night. All of it. A strange patchwork of small moments that somehow felt massive.
And yet, as I drove — something softened.
Did I get everything right? God no. The route was a mess. The planning, or total lack of it, meant I spent half the time reacting instead of enjoying. But maybe that was the point. I didn’t go looking for perfection — I went looking for something. Something real. Something rough around the edges. And that’s what I got.
Eventually I pulled into a campsite in Belgium. Not a new one, not exciting — somewhere I’d been before. But that was the comfort. Something familiar to land on. No more unknown roads or petrol station roulette. Just a little plot of grass, a plug socket, and the kind of quiet where you finally exhale.
And yeah — I hadn’t booked. Rolled the dice again. Walked in half-expecting to be turned away, but this time it all went smoothly. The universe, finally, gave me one.
Standing there by the van, looking at the old familiar surroundings, I realised something.
This wasn’t just a trip. This was proof. Proof I could do it. Proof that you can cross countries with nothing but a van and a bit of nerve. That you can mess up, get lost, run out of fuel, nearly cry in a layby, and still end up somewhere solid.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t branded. It wasn’t sponsored. It was mine.
And that’s worth more than any perfect little Instagram moment.
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