Croatia or bust - week 7 - Taking a motorhome down to Croatia and back, from the UK

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You can find the start of our posts about our Croatian adventure here: https://wherenexthun.blogspot.com/2026/02/a-motorhome-tour-down-to-croatia-and.html

Tuesday, 14th October – Day 42: Week 7
Starting Mileage: 28,025
Total Trip Mileage: Almost 3,000 miles since leaving Plymouth

The day dawns as a sombre, fog-blanketed mystery. Visibility is down to a mere 25 meters – it’s like driving through a thick curtain of cotton wool. The world outside feels muffled, as though nature herself is holding her breath. But then, we are jolted out of the quiet with a sight that shook us: a massive multi-car pileup on Autobahn 8, just across on the other carriageway lanes. The flashing lights of ambulances, police vans, and fire engines slice through the gloom, their sirens a reminder of the unpredictability of the road. Tailbacks stretch for miles, on both sides.

And yet, despite the accident, the drivers around us seem determined to make up for lost time. It's as though some vehicles think they can teleport into our cab - tailgating us so aggressively that we are convinced a car will practically weld itself to our bike rack. Statistically German autobahns are safer and with less accidents than our British motorways, per kilometre distance. However, the death toll in accidents is far higher than in ours. 

As for the journey itself, there’s not much to tell. It felt like retracing the same steps we took seven weeks ago. Yet, there was a silver lining: as the day wore on, the fog reluctantly retreated, revealing a canvas of brilliant sunshine. The temperature nudged its way to 17°C, a welcome shift after the morning’s chill. The landscape unfolded before us like a painting with trees lit up in golden and fiery hues of autumn, and fields of sunflowers and oilseed rape bursting into bloom. Each rolling hill and dense forest felt like a new chapter in an unfolding adventure story, with charming villages whizzing past, and castles perched atop distant hilltops, ancient sentinels keeping watch over the land. And just to the south, the Alps loomed, their snow-capped peaks a reminder of the mountains we’ve yet to conquer.

Tonight, we finally arrive and set up camp in Amnéville, just north of Metz, nestled under large old oak trees. The ground beneath us is a rich carpet of crispy copper leaves and acorns, each step a satisfying crunch that echoes through the peaceful surroundings. There’s something about the sound of leaves underfoot that makes the world feel just a little bit more magical. Well it does for me.

Maggie, ever the thrill-seeker, has her heart set on visiting ‘Walygator’, a nearby theme park. Sadly, the park’s about to close for the season, so that adventure will have to wait. But fear not - there’s a zoo close by, and the air is filled with the roars of lions, the chattering of monkeys, and what we swear are the calls of sea lions. It’s a curious mix of sounds. 

Costs for the Day
Fuel: €60
Campsite: €15

 

Wednesday, 15th October – Day 43: Week 7
Starting Mileage: 28,317
Total Trip Mileage: Nearly 3,000 miles since Plymouth

Today, we embarked on a journey that stretched just under 300 miles - a marathon by motorhome standards. Northern France unfolded before us like a patchwork quilt - endless rows of farmland. Fields as far as the eye could see, where tractors ploughed, sprayed, and tilled with energy.

As we crossed the Ardennes, the scenery shifted, the landscape marked by wide, open fields stretching out in every direction. Wind turbines rose like silent sentries on the horizon, their towering blades turning slowly. It made me wonder: what’s the secret of French farmers? Every inch of land that isn’t built upon seems to be in the business of growing something - potatoes, maize, sunflowers, sugar beets, peas - an endless bounty, carefully tended and harvested. I can't help but marvel at how the combination of favourable climate, fertile soil, and centuries of agricultural expertise has woven such success in this region. And of course, let's not forget the modern farming technology and EU subsidies that boost productivity like a well-oiled machine.

Rolling hills and chalky ridgelines painted a peaceful backdrop as we continued our journey, dotted with occasional wildlife sightings. Deer grazed lazily in the fields, pheasants darted through the underbrush, and majestic birds of prey - buzzards, kestrels, and even a few I couldn’t name - sat perched on fence posts and road signs as we sped by. They were like silent guardians, watching over the land as we whizzed past.

Most of our journey was spent on the motorways, until the final stretch of country roads leading us to Lyon-la-Forêt. Now, this was where the adventure kicked up a notch! Narrow, winding lanes made for the horse-drawn carts of old rather than the larger motorhome we were piloting. We passed through villages so small, and encountered Convoys Exceptionnels - those gargantuan trucks carrying the gigantic segments of wind turbines. A convoy van ahead and another behind, clearing the way for these mechanical behemoths. Passing them was like driving on a tightrope, one wrong move and we’d be tumbling into a roadside ditch. But, as always, we made it through, just barely this time!

The camping car site at Lyon-La-Floret is lovely - anotrher camping car site that does exactly what it says on the tin, and just a short walk into the village

Lyon-la-Forêt, is a village so picture-perfect it could be a movie set for a medieval adventure story. Small, half-timbered houses with cobbled streets, and an open-sided market barn at the heart of the village square. The surrounding beech forest, draped in its autumn finery, felt like something straight out of a fairytale. Think of Lavenham in Suffolk, but with the rustic charm of Ross-on-Wye’s market house. It’s a village where time slows, and you soak in the history that calls from every corner. The composer Maurice Ravel once sought inspiration here, and you can see why. It’s a place of serenity and old-world elegance, perfect for long walks or cycling, but alas, time was not on our side.

We took a moment to sit at a bar in the village square, nursing a small beer and a coffee - though, if you’re wondering, you can probably guess who had what! While Maggie relaxed with her drink, I found myself in a motorhome-hunting conversation with my sister back home – who just so happened to be at the NEC motorhome show. I was playing the role of unofficial advisor, answering rapid-fire questions about payloads and planned trips. “Think payload, think purpose!”  Not quite sure it was the romantic mood setting Maggie was hoping for but hey ho!

For the second night in a row, we’re parked at a Camping Car site. This one is a cozy little spot with room for just ten motorhomes, nestled right beside a crystal-clear chalk stream. The calm water and the surrounding landscape create the perfect backdrop for a peaceful evening. Just a short ten-minute walk brings us to the heart of the village - one last romantic stroll through this charming corner of France. After six countries and nearly 3,500 miles, it feels like a fitting place to pause and reflect on the journey.

Bryony, our trusty home on wheels, is starting to show signs of the road - her interior is looking a bit like a disaster zone, and her exterior is starting to resemble something that’s survived an entire season in only six weeks. But those are problems for the weekend.

As I sit here writing this, I can’t help but reflect on the true magic of motor homing. There’s something indescribably special about having the freedom to roam at your own pace, to wake up each day in a new landscape, and to carry your home with you wherever you go. From mountains to coastlines, canyons to caves, cityscapes to sleepy villages - we’ve seen it all, and still, each day brings something fresh. With Bryony, it’s as if every road is a new adventure, every stop an opportunity to savour life. Whether we’re racing to a hidden gem or simply unwinding in the same place for a few days, it’s the kind of life that fills us with joy, nostalgia, and the satisfaction of knowing we’re living life.

After all, "It’s not just the destination - it’s the journey”. And oh, what a journey it’s been."

Costs for the Day
Fuel: €90
Tolls: €25
Tolls from Yesterday: €40
Campsite Fee: €16

 

Thursday, 16th October – Day 44: Week 7
Starting Mileage: 28,617
Total Trip Mileage: Around 3,300 miles since Plymouth

A pine cone and one of those moments when you’re sure the universe is playing a practical joke on you. The start to my morning.

I couldn’t for the life of me get the skylight closed before our departure. After several minutes of poking and prodding, checking hinges and praying for divine intervention, I discovered the culprit: said pine cone. Stuck to the lower edge of the skylight, it had been secretly plotting its appearance from its hiding place. I have no idea where it came from, but there it was. Maggie, of course, found this hilarious. She laughed and told me I was getting old and forgetful. Ouch!

But the day’s true adventure was just beginning. When we arrived last night at the Camping Car site, a friendly guy who was servicing the barrier waved us through and promised to sort out the payment in the morning via the card number he took off us. Well, this morning, we couldn’t get out. The exit barrier was in “computer says no” mode, and Maggie had to make the dreaded phone call. Naturally, confusion reigned for a few minutes before the voice at the end let us out.

Then came the Google Maps adventure. On the way to Caen, we decided on a detour to Abbaye de Jumièges, but what Google didn’t warn us about was the traffic jam that would make a snail look fast. And the tunnels at Rouen. Ah, the tunnels. They had this charming little 2.4m height restriction at the bottom of the steep slip road down into the tunnel. A nasty trap for the unwary but quickly spotted by Mag. So, there I am, swerving across lanes of traffic, trying to avoid our roof meeting any tunnel height barrier warning poles.

Once we finally cleared Rouen, Google decided to throw in a sharp turn for fun a few miles on. Only, 50 metres down this road, the sign boldly announced a 2.4m width restriction and a 3.5-ton weight limit. I had no choice but to perform a reverse manoeuvre that I’d like to say was “graceful,” but honestly, wasn’t much more than an unedifying scramble.

When we finally made it to the Abbaye, the roads had already tested our patience enough to last a lifetime. And then - surprise! - the whole road to the Abbaye was closed. Another detour! The universe was really enjoying this one. We ended up on narrow, bumpy lanes alongside the Seine, before finally reaching the municipal aire. It was like driving through a medieval obstacle course – barriers, diversion signs, pot-holes and building equipment scattered along the roadside.

But then, we arrived to find the Abbaye de Jumièges was worth every stressful minute. A hauntingly beautiful ruin of Romanesque architecture, its towering remnants reaching for the leaden sky.  It felt like stepping into another era. Its immense scale and graceful arches inspire awe and wonder. And a fascinating history too - 7th century origins and once a flourishing monastic life, during the French Revolution, it was sold back to the people and then used as a quarry for locals to build and strengthen their rural homes. Much of the outer Abbaye buildings have long since been demolished. Now birds circle above the stone towers and soft shafts of sunlight filter through ancient windows, absent of their original stain glass.  If you ever find yourself near Rouen, it’s definitely worth the visit - a poetic echo of a medieval way of existence and spiritual life, sadly missing in our busy modern age.  I could almost feel the monks whispering to me through the wind. And just as I was beginning to embrace my zen moment of profound calmness, ready to get all deep and philosophical, disaster struck - no coffee bars open before noon. The horror! The trauma!

On the way out, we thought we’d embrace a little adventure - a small ferry across the Seine. Only, the weight limit was 3.5T. Of course it was. So, we were rerouted again. And by now, the roadworks had turned into some twisted maze of narrow country lanes. I’m starting to think Google Maps was actively trying to break me. Eventually, we found an impressive bridge and made our way to the A13 toward Caen. Let’s just say, at this point, we were both slightly traumatized. If stress could be measured in miles, we’d have crossed the entire continent.

Desperate for a little respite, we pulled into Decathlon at Caen (for me) and then hit the Mondeville 2 shopping mall (for Maggie—wine shopping, naturally). After all that chaos, we both needed some retail therapy. It was the perfect reset.

Now, the grand finale: the Camping Car saga. A few days after we returned to the UK, we got an email from Camping Car asking us to pay for our stay at Lyon-la-Forêt. Apparently, we had two accounts - because of course we did. One was registered to Maggie, the other to me. Why? Well, I thought the card was in my name, so naturally, I set up the app on my account, assuming everything would be perfectly synchronized. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. After some back-and-forth and a few “how did we get here?” moments, it all got sorted. I cancelled the duplicate card and transferred the remaining €3.00 to the correct account. Crisis averted. But seriously, I’m convinced I should add “professional idiot” to my resume.

Costs for the Day
Abbaye Entry: €14 for two

 

Friday, 17th October – Day 45: Week 7
Starting Mileage: 28,902
Total Trip Mileage: Closing in on 3,500 miles since Plymouth

Is an overnight ferry trip between Ouistreham and Portsmouth a romantic escape or just another way to add a bit of “charm” to the adventure? This was my pondering question this morning, as the ship’s soft music began to play at 4:45 AM, followed by a slightly more insistent tune at 5:00 and again at 5:15. I was sitting there, pondering life’s great mysteries - why breakfasts always seem to come with tomatoes and mushrooms?

We arrived in the port in the dark last night, the cool night air mingling with the salty scent of the sea. After a quick drink at the port bar, we retreated to Bryony to watch the world go by, observing the bustling scene around us. Customs officers, with their faithful dogs, came by to inspect the interior. A little card slipped under the windscreen wiper let everyone know we were perfectly normal - just a couple of motorhomers making their way home. We gave our usual explanation to lane supervisors about Bryony’s 3-meter height, thanks to the semi-air suspension and the raised aerial at the back, which always sounds a little more suspicious than it probably should.

Boarding the ferry is like stepping into another world. Up the stairs from deck five, and we find our cabin. It was 11:30 PM by now, and we were both running on fumes, ready to sleep. The cabin was small. Cozy? Not quite. But functional - more like a basic place where you could rest your head for the night, which was all we needed. Had this been a daytime crossing, I could probably wax poetic about the fresh sea breeze, the procession of ships in their lanes on the horizon, or perhaps grab a glass of wine in an onboard restaurant. But alas, this was a night crossing. No stars twinkling overhead, no coastline fading into the distance, and certainly no “nautical adventure” in sight.

For me, a night crossing holds none of the romance I’d like to imagine. Instead, there’s a strange sense of longing - a wish that the gentle rhythm of the waves can lull me to sleep quickly; for there’s a small, slightly embarrassing issue in play here: I get terribly seasick. Yes, you read that right. A motorhome-loving former small boat sailor who gets seasick. You couldn’t make it up could you.

The boat departs, and the coastline slips away into the night. By the time we reach the 20-minute mark after boarding, one of us (me) has fallen into a deep slumber. There’s no quiet contemplation over the ocean, no late-night drink in the lounge, no romantic stroll under the stars. Just the comforting embrace of the pillow and the sound of the boat rocking like a lullaby.

As we wake up to the first rays of sunlight breaking across the horizon, the journey starts to feel magical. There’s something timeless about watching the dawn creep over the water from our breakfast table - whether it’s the first light illuminating a new country or the familiar shores of home. It’s travel in its purest, most unhurried form: quiet, atmospheric, and full of that subtle, nautical magic that only those who’ve sailed through the night can understand.

Before we know it, we’re disembarking, and Bryony is pulling alongside the UK customs booth. A quick chat with the Border Force officers - sometimes they pop in to peek at the habitation area, sometimes they don’t - and then, just like that, we’re back on the road. Heading home to Plymouth. The adventure, this chapter of our journey, is drawing to a close. But what a grand one it’s been!

The open road, the quiet corners of hidden villages, the ancient abbeys, the laughter shared over a cup of coffee in remote towns. Each mile travelled, each memory made - our motorhome has carried us to places that will remain etched in our hearts forever. The beauty of motorhoming is that it’s not just the destination that makes it special - it’s the journey itself. And this one? Well, it’s been nothing short of extraordinary.

Costs for the Day:
Ferry: Included in the adventure!