It's Not the Campervan... Honest!

July 10, 2026

A few weeks ago, my partner Roddy and I headed off in our campervan for ten nights away. Since we've been home, I've shared a few photos and reels from our trip. You know the kind... beautiful beaches, incredible scenery, evening walks, and a lovely little reel of us walking hand in hand into the Atlantic Ocean for a cold-water dip.

Living the dream, right?

One friend commented on our reel that we looked "so sweet". It was such a lovely thing to say, but if I'm honest, it also made me feel a little like a fraud.

Don't get me wrong, that moment was real. Standing hand in hand in the Atlantic really was special, and it's a memory I'll always treasure.

But it was just that... a moment.

Like every photograph, it captured a tiny snapshot of our lives, not the whole picture.

One evening, while scrolling Instagram (I know... I'm trying to break the habit!), I came across a post from someone I follow. She asked:

"How do people survive life in a campervan with their partner and not want to kill them?"

I laughed out loud because I knew exactly what she meant.

It immediately took me back to my friend's comment and made me realise I wanted to share a slightly more honest version of campervan life. Because while it really is great fun, incredibly liberating and something I absolutely love, it's also... well... an adjustment.

A big adjustment.

Now, before Roddy reads this and starts wondering where this blog is heading, let me make one thing very clear...

I love him dearly.

In fact, heading off together in our campervan is one of my favourite things we do. Give us a beautiful campsite, our bikes, our kayak, a flask of tea and a few days with nowhere in particular to be, and we're both very happy.

But...

If you've ever wondered whether campervan life is quite as idyllic as Instagram makes it look...

Let me reassure you.

It isn't.

The Adventure Starts Long Before You Leave

When we're heading off on a longer campervan trip, the adventure actually starts months before we leave.

First comes deciding where to go. Then the research begins. We spend hours looking for great walking and cycling routes, wild swimming and kayaking spots, places worth visiting and, of course, excellent coffee and somewhere good to eat. (Priorities!)

As departure day gets closer, the planning shifts up a gear. There's the packing, checking we've got all the essentials – chargers, the electric hook-up cable, walking boots, swimming gear – stocking the fridge and somehow squeezing far too much into what campervan owners affectionately call the 'garage'... the storage space tucked neatly under the raised bed.

Then, just as Roddy has packed everything with military precision, I inevitably ask the one question he really doesn't want to hear...

"Did I definitely pack my swim shoes?"

"Can we just check?"

Cue Roddy patiently unpacking half the van because, inevitably, the swim shoes are right at the back, underneath absolutely everything.

You can almost feel the tension rising, can't you?

Then there's work.

Between us, we're running businesses, juggling deadlines and trying to hand everything over before we leave. By the time departure day finally arrives, we're usually absolutely exhausted.

By the time we pull out of the driveway, we're both ready for a holiday... from getting ready for the holiday.

Welcome to Your Small but Bijou Home on Wheels

The first few days are always a bit of an adjustment.

First, there's the mental shift from work mode to holiday mode.

Then there's settling into your new surroundings... your small but bijou home on wheels.

It's amazing what you can fit into such a small space.

Personal space, however, isn't one of those things.

You very quickly become aware of just how much space you normally take for granted.

Making a cup of tea suddenly becomes a two-person operation. Getting dressed requires military planning. If one person decides to cook, the other somehow always ends up standing exactly where they need to be.

And it's amazing what can become mildly irritating when there's absolutely nowhere to disappear to for five minutes.

The eating.

The nudging.

The shoes that somehow always end up exactly where you need to stand.

Even, dare I say it...

...the breathing.

We've certainly had some wonderfully pointless debates over the years. Campsites. Walking routes. Dominoes that became far more competitive than either of us cares to admit.

And don't even get me started on the mysterious ability for one person to occupy 90% of a double duvet.

I solved that one pretty quickly.

Two single duvets.

Game changer.

And here's something nobody tells you...

I genuinely think I do more housework in the campervan than I do at home.

Everything has its place because if it doesn't... nobody gets to the kettle.

And the dishwasher isn't electric.

It's you.

The HRT Patch Incident

But none of that compared with what happened on the first morning of our recent trip.

Our first stop was Beauly, just outside Inverness. It was simply an overnight stop to break up the journey, so on Monday morning I headed off to the shower block before we set off again.

Now, Mondays and Thursdays are my HRT patch changeover days. Monday is my 'weekday leg' and Thursday is my 'weekend leg'. Don't ask me why—I honestly don't know how these things become a system, but once they do, you don't mess with them!

After my shower, I rummaged through my toiletry bag to find my Monday patch.

Nothing.

I looked again.

Still nothing.

Surely not.

My stomach lurched.

Surely I hadn't forgotten to pack them.

I could feel the panic rising. Could I somehow eke another couple of days out of my weekend patch? Maybe if I pressed it down really firmly...

...like, really firmly.

No, Alex.

That's not how HRT works.

There was only one solution.

We'd have to go home.

I know... completely irrational!

But in my head there was simply no alternative.

Poor Roddy now had two choices: drive an eight-hour round trip home to collect my patches or spend the next ten days in a campervan with me and my rapidly depleting hormones.

Neither felt like a particularly attractive option.

There was no way I was surviving ten nights in a campervan with rapidly declining oestrogen levels. It would be horrific. We wouldn't survive. The holiday would be over before it had even begun.

I got dressed as quickly as I could and practically ran back to the van.

I was convinced I'd packed the patches because I clearly remembered looking at the box in the bathroom before we left and saying to myself, Whatever you do, don't forget these.

As I got back to the van, I suddenly remembered the little toiletry bag where I keep my hair clips.

Had I packed them in there?

With everything crossed and silently praying to the hormone gods, I searched through it.

And there it was.

My little blue and white box of patches.

I could almost see a little halo glowing above it.

The relief was overwhelming.

"Cup of tea?" asked Roddy, completely oblivious to the absolute catastrophe he'd just been saved from.

It Wasn't the Campervan

Recently, Roddy and I met up with my cousin and her husband. They've been talking about buying a campervan or, more accurately, my cousin has been building a very convincing case for why they should. Her husband, Paul, is a little less convinced.

I know this scenario well. It took me five years to persuade Roddy.

As we chatted, I asked Paul what was holding him back.

After several perfectly sensible reasons, all of which my cousin swiftly dismissed, he finally blurted out that some friends of his had bought a campervan and, after six months of campervan life, were now divorced after many (apparently) happy years of marriage.

Now, although "campervan" wasn't listed on the divorce papers, he was fairly sure it had played a significant role.

I completely understood where he was coming from.

Living in such close proximity can definitely be testing. It's not for the faint-hearted. It has an uncanny ability to expose the smallest irritations and test both your patience and your tolerance.

But over the years, I've realised something.

It isn't the campervan that needs adjusting to.

It's us.

Roddy and I could spend a week in an 18-bedroom Scottish castle and we'd probably still experience some of the same little niggles.

The campervan isn't creating them.

It's simply revealing them.

For the first three or four days, I'm still carrying work around in my head. I might be physically on holiday, but mentally I'm still at my desk, solving problems, writing emails, making lists and thinking three steps ahead.

It's not the environment I need to adjust to.

It's the slower pace.

The mental space.

The absence of the to-do list.

Yes, the confined space can be challenging, but the biggest hurdle is switching off, relaxing, lightening up and learning not to take myself quite so seriously.

Once I do that, I can finally embrace everything campervan life has to offer.

And that's where the real joy begins.

The freedom.

The spontaneity.

The adventures.

The simplicity.

I love how little I actually need (apart from the HRT patches, obviously!).

Life becomes wonderfully uncomplicated. You spend less time thinking about stuff and more time noticing what's around you.

Maybe that's why we love campervan life so much.

Not because it's perfect.

Far from it.

Because, eventually, it gently encourages us to slow down.

To be present.

To notice the places we're in and the people we're with.

To chat.

To read.

To watch the sunrise.

To take in nature.

To breathe.

To simply be.

Those Instagram reels I shared weren't fake.

They were real moments.

They just weren't the whole story.

The whole story includes too many shoes, forgotten HRT patches, pointless debates, tiny frustrations that occasionally become rather bigger ones and the odd silent drive.

But it also includes laughter.

Freedom.

Perspective.

And the chance to reconnect—not just with each other, but with ourselves.

So, if you're thinking about heading off on a campervan adventure with your other half, I'd wholeheartedly encourage you to give it a go.

Just don't expect perfection.

Expect an adjustment.

Give yourselves a few days to slow down, stop thinking about work and laugh at yourselves.

You might just discover it gives you far more than you expected.

And the best part?

You get to wake up every morning beside someone you'd happily choose to do it all again with tomorrow.

Although perhaps not until day three...

Or maybe day four.

And that's only if you haven't been tempted to drive off and leave them at the campsite while they're in the shower.

(Not that I've ever thought about doing that, of course.)

Alex x

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