Picture this: it’s a Thursday evening, I’ve just finished a full shift at work, I’m nursing a cold that makes me sound like a dying foghorn, and my van—bless it—has brake pads that screech like a cat being strangled through a harmonica. Most people would’ve taken that as a sign to stay home, brew a cup of tea, and rest. I, on the other hand, had an epiphany. Somewhere between the last sneeze and a half-eaten packet of biscuits, the idea struck: Oktoberfest. Why? Who knows. Call it cabin fever, call it a spontaneous crisis, or just a bloke who missed his mates and fancied some beer-fuelled chaos in Munich. Either way, I was off. No plan, no proper prep—just one van and blind optimism.
Now, if you’re the type who loves checklists, double-checking tyre pressures, and neatly folding your socks before a trip, you may want to brace yourself. This wasn’t a glossy, curated Instagram #vanlife journey. It was messy, ill-prepared, and full of lessons I wish I’d learned beforehand. But if you’re the kind of person who believes the best stories come from the worst decisions, you’re in good company.
I have a full series of my first European Road Trip To Oktoberfest where you can follow the full adventure of driving to Germany for the first time.
From Flu to Ferry: The Origin Story of a Poorly-Planned Pilgrimage
I didn’t set out to go anywhere. Honestly. My plan was to ride out the cold and get back to normal life. But you know how it goes—scrolling old photos, missing mates you haven’t seen since before the world turned upside down, and suddenly the thought of being in a tent with a litre of German beer in each hand doesn’t seem that far-fetched. I didn’t have a ticket to Oktoberfest. I wasn’t even sure if I could get in. But the idea of hitting the road felt right. I had a van. The Ferry was bookable. And my spirit—though phlegmy—was willing.
With all the clarity of someone not fully recovered, I made my first and only real move of planning: I booked a ferry crossing. After that? Well, let’s just say the word “plan” becomes very generous.
Planning a Van Trip to Europe (Or Failing Spectacularly)
My preparation level sat somewhere between “it’ll be fine” and “what’s the worst that could happen?” Spoiler: a fair bit, actually.
I forgot to pack until the absolute last minute—5:45 p.m. for a supposed 6 p.m. departure—and even then, my brain was half mush from work and illness. I remembered to feed the robin outside but forgot my own dinner. I brought snacks, sure, but no proper meals. My medicine was scattered across three separate bags like a treasure hunt. And in a moment of post-Brexit brilliance, I tried to smuggle meat under the bed, which I later realised isn’t exactly allowed in the EU anymore.
To top it off, I hadn’t checked the van properly. The oil was low, the tyre pressure light had been glaring at me for days like a disappointed teacher, and the brakes—oh, the brakes—were one good hill away from retirement.
Packing, Procrastination, and Oppressive Overlords
Work that day had been mental. I mean properly flat-out. My captors—also known as my bosses—seem to have made it their mission to monitor every nanosecond you’re online or away, like a dystopian version of Big Brother powered by Microsoft Teams. That little status dot? It’s not just a colour. It’s a snitch. You go “Away” for five minutes and boom—somebody’s on you like you’ve tried to escape a prisoner-of-war camp. Trying to sneak in some cheeky packing between meetings was a non-starter.
Working from home used to mean a bit of flexibility. Now it just means being oppressed from the comfort of your kitchen, while the same managers who are tracking your online status are probably playing FIFA on their second monitor. So no, I didn’t pack during the day. Not even a sock. Which meant that at 5:45 p.m., for a planned 6 p.m. departure, I was still in a mild panic trying to figure out if I had toothpaste, clean pants, or my passport. Spoiler: I had one of the three.
Vanlife Pre-Trip Inspection Fail: My Brake Pad Near-Miss
The day before I left, I thought I’d be sensible and pop into the garage for a quick tyre check. The look on the mechanic’s face said it all. Turns out the brake pads were shot—well past the legal limit, edging into “you’re lucky you haven’t hit a wall” territory.
Now, credit where it’s due, my local garage pulled off a miracle and got the job done last minute. But it was a close call. One more day of ignoring the noise and this Oktoberfest dream would’ve ended in the Halfords car park. And all I could think was: Why didn’t I check this stuff a week ago? If you’re taking one thing from this post, let it be this: don’t assume your van’s fine just because it got you to Tesco and back.
A Bloke, a Van, and the World’s Worst Ferry Timing
Right. Let’s talk about the crossing. I’d booked a 6:55 a.m. ferry. Sensible? No. Not when you leave the house at 8:13 p.m. the night before, with six hours of driving ahead and a body that’s running on Lucozade and sheer willpower.
I hit every snag imaginable—Port Talbot roadworks that added 25 minutes, a KFC app that crashed after billing me twice, and the creeping realisation that I probably should’ve booked a later ferry and, you know, slept at some point. When I finally arrived at Dover, I was knackered, dazed, and half-convinced I’d forgotten something critical like my passport or the steering wheel.
Pro tip: Don’t try to be a hero. Book the later crossing. The only thing waiting for you at 3 a.m. is a vending machine with bad attitude and worse coffee.
Ferry Life: Where Hope Goes to Die
I naively assumed I’d be allowed to sleep in the van during the ferry ride. Oh, sweet summer child. Not only was I booted out into the main lounge, but every seat was either taken or being used by someone attempting yoga on a budget airline chair.
I grabbed a couple of hours’ kip sitting bolt upright, neck cricked like a broken Pez dispenser, and stumbled out into France with the cognitive function of a damp sponge. A ten-quid tomato masquerading as a full English and a coffee that tasted like burnt regret didn’t help.
Surviving European Vanlife on No Sleep and Twix Bars
You learn a lot about yourself at service stations. For instance, I now know that extreme fatigue will make you consider arguing with a Twix vending machine about inflation. I also learned that there’s a quiet, unspoken solidarity among vanlifers running on fumes—literal and metaphorical. We all wear that same “what day is it?” expression and give each other the nod. The “I see you, fellow fool” nod. It’s comforting in its own weird way.
At one point, I found myself having a full conversation with my reflection in the mirror about whether or not I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge. The answer, for the record, was yes.
Oktoberfest Arrival: Sleep-Deprived but Still Standing
By the time I finally pulled into Munich, I was more phantom than man. I parked—successfully, without clipping anything, which at that point felt like winning the lottery. Of course this wasn’t without a mishap where I’d put in the general address rather than the street name. It’s like saying drive to mid Wales and then realising you’re an hour away.
Pro tip. Load up the proper address in your phone before you drive, future you will love you for this
What I’d Do Differently (Basically Everything)
Look, winging it makes for good stories—but it’s hell to live through in real-time. If I had my time again, I’d at least tick off a basic van road-trip checklist before setting off. You know, grown-up things like:
- Check brake pads and discs
- Check tyre condition, pressure, and tread depth (aim for 3mm minimum)
- Check oil and coolant levels
- Make sure all lights and indicators work
- Pack actual meals, not just protein bars and crisps
- Bring more water than you need, a lot more.
- Book a ferry at a sane time
- Get some rest. Seriously.
- Remember that you arent a teenager who can do a full shift at work, then drive for 6 hours.
That’s your pre-trip inspection right there. Scribble it on a Post-it. Stick it to your dash. Or tattoo it on your forearm—whatever works.
Final Thoughts: Vanlife Ain’t Always Pretty, But It’s Always Memorable
Van life gets romanticised a lot online—sunsets, tidy vans, perfect breakfasts on tailgates. But the real stories, the ones that stick with you, come from moments where everything goes a bit sideways. Where you’re navigating border crossings half-asleep, or using your own boot as a pillow, or desperately Googling “EU meat ban” at a petrol station.
This trip reminded me that the freedom of vanlife comes with a responsibility: to plan just enough to avoid a complete disaster. But also to leave space for the unexpected—the strange service stations, the German breakfasts, the sheer mad joy of making it there in one piece.
