France by van: a journey of babies, parenting and small adventures

The first thing we do in this life is cry. Later, we smile. Then we start laughing. Driving 1,000+ kilometres to the Alps with a baby involves all three. 

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On 26 January 2023 at 5:24 am, Annabelle arrived in this world screaming her little heart out. She was miffed. I would like to say that having become a father, I had started the greatest adventure of all. This is only half of the truth. I had also started changing nappies and not getting enough sleep.

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When Carly and I decided to drive to the Alps with a six month old baby, we didn’t have a baby. I think we were somewhere in the second trimester. I’d lost the continual feeling of sickness, and it was just before I started putting on significant weight. We were high on the soon-to-be-new-parent sense of invincibility, not yet stripped bare by sleep deprivation. 

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This was going to be our first trip abroad as parents. It was to a place we were familiar with, but this time it would be unfamiliar. We would be marching to the beat of Annabelle’s drum. 

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Devon to Dover 

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We were about fifteen minutes from home when we were required to make a rapid, unscheduled, catastrophic toilet stop. It was clear from the start that our usual approach to multi-day drives (drive non-stop all day and all night, sleep in the front seat and then carry on), wasn’t going to cut it. 

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We’d already done some short trips with Annabelle and we knew that she took to van life well. It was important to take frequent stops so that she could stretch her chubby, kneeless legs. For every hour we drove, we would need to spend an hour chilling. If we timed driving around naps, we would reduce the crying per mile ratio. This was “Zen and the Art of Baby Maintenance.”

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The hours passed in a repetitive stop-start loop. The bucolic English countryside rolled past us in fits and starts. The sun poked out from behind the clouds. It rained, because this was the British summer. We weaved our way towards Dover, fueling ourselves with Greggs sausage rolls and topping Annabelle up with milk on demand. 

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The ferry ride across the channel provided an opportunity to stretch all of our chubby legs. Any crying was neutralised by pointing out to sea, wandering the decks, or bouncing on a knee.

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Calais to somewhere off the A31 near Dijon

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As the French roads stretched out in front of us, with what seemed like only a handful of turns between us and our stop for the night, I smiled for a few miles. I was struck by the familiarity of driving a journey we had done before, which was this time and forever different. 

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My mad dash to get the van finished before we left, so we could sleep in comfort, had failed. The van wasn’t ready. We would have to spend a somewhat uncomfortable night somewhere in France, before the final push to Saint Gervais. 

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In the summer of 2023, southern Europe was gripped by a crushing heatwave that caused fires and evacuations and turned vast swathes of countries into the seventh circle of hell. Where we were it was quite hot. As long as the air conditioning didn’t break, we would be ok. As we wrapped up our afternoon pit stop Annabelle smiled and gurgled in the shade while being blasted by a battery operated fan. We finished up our service station dinner and headed out. 

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The sun set behind the vast open fields, bringing the temperature back to a manageable level. We knew we could get some serious miles in while Annabelle slept. 

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While it pains me to say this, the French destroy the Brits when it comes to service stations. Ok, you have to pay tolls to take the fastest roads, but —what seemed like every ten minutes— a sign-post would point you to an ‘Aire’. These ‘aire de service’ line the motorways and (nicer ones) are often found near villages and towns. You are not always allowed to stay over, but more often than not you are (check the signs). The motorway ones are not the nicest places to stay, but their frequency means they are perfect for pulling over and resting when you need to. 

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It seemed like a small village had stopped at this one. People slept out in the open on roll matts to try and stay cool in the heat. We carried out some interior reconfiguration, cracked the doors to catch some breeze and curled up in the back of the van. 

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Dijon to Saint-Gervais

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We woke blurry eyed and treated ourselves to croissants and coffee. It was a short drive to the Alps and we were soon winding our way up the curving mountain road to Saint-Gervais. 

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We spent the next two weeks discovering how to navigate a mountain holiday with a baby. This involved tag-team mountain biking, instead of heading off together. It involved some serious temperature regulation efforts, heading up the mountain and into the forested areas to provide a temperature suitable for sleeping babies. It involved timing walks around naps to allow the soporific rocking of the buggy to work in our favour. 

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We hid inside during the peak of the day’s heat and let Annabelle practise her crawling on the cool tile floor. We would venture out as the sun dropped, daring to attempt to eat out. Going to a restaurant feels like eating with a small hand grenade next to you that could go off at any minute. While it involved a great deal of effort that we hadn’t had to make before, we… managed it! 

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We met friends and drank and walked and swam. I learned that you can go on an adventure with a baby, the adventure has just changed. In my mind, Annabelle’s laughter echoes around the Alpine peaks, and all the rest is just noise. 

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