The night before our trip I made matcha cookies which were bright green, white chocolate chips, and absolutely not brilliant. My stomach filed a formal complaint sometime around 3 a.m., and the cookie‑induced acid reflux yanked me out of a dream about work and handover. A blessing in disguise really, because it meant I could finish my tasks and pack away the laptop before the morning pack and lock-up began.
Matt potted downstairs at 4:30 when my alarm went off… except the alarm wasn’t anywhere near the bed. He had to go on a full‑scale hunt for it, and for reasons I cannot explain, it was tucked away in the bathroom cupboard. I have no memory of putting it there. None.
We left behind essentials such as tuna and olive oil, because obviously those are the things you forget and were in the car by 6:15am. I had a charming bout of early‑morning sickness right before setting off, which is exactly what you want before a long drive. We crossed our fingers that the Dartford Tunnel wasn’t closed (it had been temperamental all week), but for once all was well. We even arrived at Folkestone early enough to catch an earlier train.
Our car was pulled over for a security review, during which Matt was asked if he had packed any guns. His steering wheel was wiped for drugs. I’m not sure what triggered it, just lucky for us I guess. After that, we had to politely nudge our car back into a queue that wasn’t budging French passport control, which took forever and a day. Possibly two.
On the train we played “top or bottom,” and I won. We drove up onto the top deck, and I referred to it as the "top bunk”. Matt knew what I meant.
We arrived just after 11 a.m. and pushed through France, Belgium, and into the Netherlands. The roads are far better than the Uk however the Dutch motorways were blocked in a couple of places, with little clue on what to do, and TomTom only wanted to re-route us back to the pickle, so we abandoned TomTom for Google Maps and wound our way through pretty villages with the odd windmill, flat terrain and big sky. We were absolutely drained; I genuinely don’t know how Matt did it. Two short breaks, several burger infusions, and I feel sheer willpower.
The car added its own take on the journey. At one point it made strange noises as the filter cleaned itself, echoing dramatically in a tunnel. I’m fairly sure the car in front thought we were beeping at them because they changed lanes to give us space. During our second stop, we turned off the engine and stepped out… but the car kept blowing like a fan for a full five minutes. Just casually cooling itself.
Minutes from the hotel, the motorway exit was blocked again. Out came trusty Google Maps, and we found another route. We should have arrived at the hotel about 3:30; instead, it took us an extra two hours. We had filled the time with the radio, quizzes, map reading and burgers. Truly, I do not know how Matt kept his cool, it was super-draining and felt like we were never going to arrive.
We emptied the car, made a coffee, and took a much‑needed walk to stretch our legs and gather breakfast basics. Back at the apartment, we poured a celebratory limoncello, I do like limoncello, as we have ticked off another milestone on the mortgage, I then made us a bowl of pesto pasta, and we added to our scrapbooks. We were exhausted, but we’d made it to our fourth country in less than a day. And it was still the weekend.
We collapsed into a bed twice the size of ours at home and slept in full starfish formation. A super early night with a double-figure sleep ahead.