The idiot's guide to campervanning

Telegraph

23-07-2025

If you imagine the midlife campervan dream as an idyllic sequence of waking to birdsong, sipping espresso with panoramic views and gliding effortlessly along sun-drenched coastal roads, I regret to inform you that this is not that story.
What follows is a cautionary tale – an idiot's guide, if you will – drawn from a year of trial, error, mild hysteria and the kind of hasty improvisation that would make Bear Grylls weep. This is not for the die-hard experienced motorhome aficionado, more for the enthusiastic beginner full of well-meaning good intentions.
Our Bürstner Eliseo C602 campervan, subsequently christened Bertha, arrived during my midlife 'moment', a shiny, gadget-laden symbol of freedom and adventure.
After a summer spent zigzagging across the UK and France, she was winterised with all the seriousness of a military operation (credit here goes to my partner, Pete, who finally resigned himself to reading the manual). Bertha slumbered peacefully on our driveway for months, until spring came calling and we decided it was time to take a 10-day road trip to Île de Ré via Le Shuttle. We foolishly believed that a full week of preparation time would be more than enough.
Initially, it was. The cleaning and trip-organising ticked along nicely – until we attempted to turn on the taps. Not a drop emerged. Our hearts sank as we opened The Manual (capitalisation deserved) and began the frustrating hunt for the elusive water pump. Convinced it lay beneath the rear passenger seat, we spent 30 bewildering minutes flicking switches and peering into compartments. Nothing.
Fortunately, salvation was just up the road at the Warminster Motorhome Showroom, from where we had purchased Bertha; the ever-patient staff suggested a fuse might be to blame. I dutifully trotted off to buy a pack of five-amp fuses and we spent the next hour slotting them in with the blind optimism of people who have no idea what they're doing. Still no joy. Another phone call, and a new theory emerged – perhaps the pump itself was faulty.
Pete, ever the Googler, discovered that the pump was located inside the water tank. Even better, its connecting lead had mysteriously severed during its winter nap. A small miracle: when I bought Bertha just under a year ago, I had the foresight to extend the warranty. One free replacement pump from the showroom and a YouTube tutorial later, Pete installed it with surgical precision. At last, water flowed.
What we learnt
Lesson 1
Start your preparation for any trip a full month ahead, do a dry run, and – for the love of all things plumbing and electrical – stock up on fuses.
Bertha's Apple CarPlay system had always been temperamental, losing connection at critical moments like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Determined to solve it once and for all, Pete installed a wireless adapter, digging into the dashboard to fit a new USB-C to USB-A cable linked to a tiny Wi-Fi hub. It was as fiddly as it sounds, but it worked – a stable connection at last, with no satnav dropouts to test our already-fragile nerves.
Feeling confident, we set off with Maya the Boxer in tow, trundling towards France. Twelve hours in, as we rolled along the French péage, a warning light blinked and a chime pinged: low AdBlue. That's the additive used in diesel vehicles to reduce nitrogen oxide emissions.
Cue an emergency detour to a service station that had all the charm of a Soviet bus stop and none of the useful motoring supplies – bar one last dusty five-litre can of AdBlue.
It came with a bendy tube, which, naturally, didn't fit the AdBlue intake of our van. Pete attempted to pour it in, only to coat his hands in the pungent clear liquid. Ingeniously, he inserted a large screwdriver into the tube to create enough rigidity for insertion – a solution more Blue Peter than Bosch, but effective nonetheless.
While we were at it, we then checked the oil and resolved to carry both on all future trips.
Always carry AdBlue, oil, gloves and the knowledge that all service stations are not created equal.
Lesson 2
On the topic of vehicle health, we were fortunate enough not to break down – but we've since realised that good fortune is not a strategy.
If you're planning a campervan adventure, a basic mechanical check before departure is essential: inspect tyre treads and pressures, check oil and coolant levels, and make sure your windscreen washer fluid is topped up. It's also worth carrying jump leads, a tyre inflator and a high-vis vest – particularly if you're heading abroad.
And perhaps most importantly: invest in decent breakdown cover that includes Europe. While adventure is wonderful, being stranded on a hard shoulder in rural Brittany is not.
One of the most crucial, yet tragically underestimated, components of any road trip is snacks. I had lovingly stocked Bertha's overhead compartments with our preferred treats. However, I slightly overestimated their capacity. The first pothole we hit caused an open (but barely touched) bag of dry roasted peanuts to rain on my head like nutty shrapnel. It was as if the heavens had opened and declared war, one salty missile at a time.
Slimline, sealed snacks only up top. Heavy artillery goes below.
Lesson 3
Campervan cupboards present another conundrum.
If not tightly packed, they rattle, clatter and fling themselves open during high-speed cornering. Pete, who occasionally drives Bertha like she's qualifying for the British Grand Prix, prompted a cupboard door to fly open mid-swerve. We solved the problem with a bulk pack of cheap childproof locks from Amazon. Classy? No. Effective? Absolutely.
The bathroom, Bertha's smallest and most treacherous chamber, is a wonder of spatial engineering. I'd managed to pack it with just the right number of lotions, potions and roll-on deodorants. Unfortunately, during one fuel stop, I opened the cupboard to grab some face cream, forgetting two important things: the toilet seat was up, and the hole cover was open. Pete's roll-on leapt from its snug cubby like a startled gymnast, bounced once, then spiralled into the bowl like a roulette ball, before disappearing into the sewage tank beneath.
Pete's sausage fingers were no match for the retrieval mission, so my more-delicate digits were reluctantly drafted. With the precision of an arcade claw machine, I reached in and retrieved it. Subsequently, drenching both my hand and the roll-on in water and disinfectant. Suffice to say, more vigilance above the brink of the abyss is now always applied.
Seat down, lid on, cover closed. Always. Even if you're in a rush.
Lesson 4:
Packing up a campsite sounds like a simple reversal of the setting-up process – it's not.
The devil is in the details, particularly in flaps. The protective flap that covers Bertha's mains electric hookup seemed determined to remain open, visibly flapping in the door mirror like a forgotten tea towel. We've now added 'check and secure all flaps' to our departure checklist.
Other learnings included the need for a reliable tyre inflator (you never know), heavy-duty pegs and ratchet straps for awning security, as well as an understanding that inflatable tents have a personality of their own – and that personality is often difficult.
Campervanning, it turns out, is not for the faint-hearted, but for the well prepared, well stocked and well humoured. It's gloriously imperfect. Owning your own van allows you to keep it loaded with the essentials. And even if that means enduring the odd airborne peanut or blue-handed AdBlue debacle, it's all part of the experience.
In the end, it's less about the perfect trip and more about the perfectly laughable moments you'll never forget.