A Campervan Finale Powered by Coffee and Questionable Decisions, The Very Early Morning Return

There’s something heroic or foolish about deciding to head home very early in the morning. Not “early” as in 7am. No. We’re talking the kind of early where the birds aren’t even awake yet, the sky is still thinking about whether it wants to be night or day, and your campervan headlights feel like the only source of light in the universe.

But after weeks of lakeside pitches, chalk cliffs, medieval towns, dragons, goats, and pastries, it was time. The final leg. The home stretch. The dawn‑patrol dash back to reality.

The Pre‑Sunrise Shuffle

We rolled out of bed like two people who had made promises to ourselves the night before that our morning selves definitely did not agree with. The Calais Aire was silent, even the birds were still asleep, which felt personally insulting.

The campervan, however, was ready. It had that smug “I told you we should’ve packed last night” energy. We ignored it, threw everything inside with the precision of people who no longer cared where anything went, and hit the road.

Driving Through the Not‑Quite‑Morning

There’s a strange magic to driving before sunrise. The roads are empty, the world is quiet, and every petrol station looks like a beacon of civilisation. We powered through the darkness, fuelled by caffeine, leftover snacks, and the promise of our own bed.

The sky slowly shifted from black to blue to something vaguely optimistic. Calais faded behind us (well for the single junction down the motorway at least) as we pulled into Le Shuttle and when the time came, the Channel crossing blurred into a sleepy memory, and before we knew it, we were back on British roads, where the potholes welcomed us home like old friends.

The “We Actually Did It” Moment

There’s always that moment, somewhere around the final hour, when it hits you:
We actually did it.
We drove the circumference of France.
We wandered towns most people skip.
We met goats on islands.
We saw dragons spit water.
We walked medieval streets.
We ate waffles, pastries, and things we pretended were healthy.
And now we were heading home, very early, very tired, and very happy.

The campervan hummed along, probably relieved it wasn’t being asked to climb another cliffside road or squeeze into another French Aire.

Rolling Back Into Reality

We headed up the M1 for a lunch stop at Trish's sister who had been baby sitting various plant life (thanks Ann). Before jumping back in the campervan (aka Lenny, yes he has a name) for the dash across the Cat and Fiddle, and finally home appeared on the horizon like a familiar old friend. The driveway felt strangely small after weeks of wide open spaces. The house looked exactly the same, which felt rude considering how much we had changed.

We parked up, stepped out, stretched like two people who had aged 10 years overnight, and looked at each other with that shared expression that says:

“Right. When’s the next trip?”

Final Thoughts: The Early‑Morning Return Is a Rite of Passage

Every campervan adventure needs a dramatic ending, and ours came in the form of a pre‑sunrise dash across countries, coastlines, and coffee supplies. It was chaotic, exhausting, and absolutely perfect.

Because the best journeys don’t end neatly, they end with bleary eyes, messy hair, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you squeezed every last drop out of the adventure.

And now… time to unpack.
Or not.
Well, probably not...