It’s the 19th March 2025, and Kirsty, Eddie, Herbie and I are travelling to Folkestone in a 20-year-old motorhome we call Florence.
I’m writing this first edition of Stories from the Road exactly one year to the day after we left on a three-month tour of Europe. The trip took us through France, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Austria, Switzerland, and then back through France to the UK. I’d taken a break from running my business, and my fiancée, Kirsty, had been given a three-month sabbatical from her job.
The trip became an opportunity to reflect on my business journey up to that point, and to come up with a plan to make it more successful. I started keeping a diary of all the thoughts and ideas I was having, along with the places I was visiting at the time. The writing you’ll find in Stories from the Road is a retelling of that diary.
Back then, I was a bit stuck. I felt like a failure, honestly, and I couldn’t make my business work the way I wanted it to. It was functioning, yes, and I could get by from month to month. But it felt like I was running just to stay still.
Right now, one year on, this act of writing feels more relevant than ever — for reasons that will become clear in subsequent editions of Stories from the Road. I’m undertaking this project to relive that experience and place myself back in those moments. I want this writing to help me make the business decisions I need to make now, in 2026.
Are you coming along for the journey?
The days leading up to the trip were frantic. We departed on the afternoon of the 19th, leaving Norwich on the M11 and heading towards Kent. That night, we stayed at a little campsite near the Eurostar terminal and waited for the trip to properly begin.
The next morning was beautifully sunny. We packed up the van, headed to check-in, and took Eddie and Herbie to the animal reception for their passport check (did I mention Eddie and Herbie are Golden Retrievers?).
Then, before we knew it, we were in France, travelling south on the A16 towards the village of Marquis. It was a strangely hot, bright day — more like midsummer than late March. In truth, I hadn’t really wanted to come on this trip, for fear of what it would do to my business, but with the windows down and warm air blowing through the van, I had the first sensation that it might be amazing.
Also, strangely, we had no idea where we were going. The plan only went as far as Marquis to pick up two bags of dog food. Beyond that, nothing.
The Park4Night iOS app helped us find a farm just north of the town that might have space for the night. When we arrived, we discovered five other vans neatly lined up along the side of the road with gorgeous views over the sunny French countryside. It was €10 for the night, and a young German couple (also staying there) told us we needed to put our money in an old French postbox fixed to the side of the barn — which we did.
But we had an issue. Somewhere between Calais and Marquis, we must have flicked up a stone and cracked Florence’s greywater pipe, so washing-up water started dripping out at a fairly alarming rate. My doubts resurfaced and I felt like we should go home. But Kirsty had more resilience than me, and suggested we put a bucket under the pipe for the night and try to fix it in the morning.
That night we went for a lovely evening walk through the fields and Herbie (did I mention he was a one-year-old Golden Retriever puppy?) found the largest, wettest, stinkiest pile of manure in all of France and decided to jump right in. He stunk to the high heavens, not that he minded.
Brilliant, I thought.
We decided to follow the coast south, skirting past Dieppe on our way to Caen and the Normandy coastline. Before we reached Caen, we found another lovely campsite in the beautiful village of Beuvron-en-Auge. This time there were only three other vans, nestled in the trees. We had to pay our €10 fee to one of the shopkeepers in the town square, and we only just made it before they closed for the day.
That evening, I started a new habit of walking and thinking on my own, which I still carry on to this day. Up to that point, whenever I went for a walk at home, it was usually for a practical reason such as taking the dog out. But here, in the quiet of an astonishingly beautiful village, where local people were eating and drinking and sharing stories, I found the space to start reflecting.
I began to think about why I’d set up my business in the first place, what I was trying to do, and where I might be going wrong. I was struck by the communal life in this little village — its independent cafés and bars full of laughter and joy — and by how little we seem to have that at home.
I decided to use the trip to come up with a plan for what to do when I got home. Somewhere in among all that, I started to notice my head getting quieter.
From Beuvron-en-Auge we made it to the Normandy coastline. Over the next few days we visited Pegasus Bridge, the D-Day landing beaches, and the Overlord Museum. We also stayed on a campsite owned by a Frenchman wearing a dressing gown, where I reckoned we had a 95% chance of getting Florence stuck in the mud (we survived).
But the most significant visit, for me, was going to Omaha Beach and the American War Cemetery, near Colleville-sur-Mer, on the 22nd March. Kirsty and I took it in turns to walk around, since Eddie and Herbie weren’t allowed. It gave me another solitary stretch of time to think. I found myself reflecting on the sacrifice of the men and women laid to rest there, and on everyone who has fought in conflicts to give us the life we have today.
Because I loved history as a boy, I think I’ve always felt a kind of obligation to make the most of my life. But somewhere along the way, through studying and trying to build a business, I’d twisted that idea into something else. Instead of focusing on what mattered, and on living life fully, I’d started to believe my life had to prove something: that I needed to be successful, or known, for it to count.
That belief meant I was working far too hard, for the wrong reasons, and not really enjoying life at all. I’d built something difficult and joyless out of the expectations I’d set myself. It was something I’d never properly considered before.
Here I was, only four days into the trip, gaining insights I would never have had if I’d stayed at home. And we still had three more months to go.
From the Normandy beaches, our plan was to head south to the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Mont Saint-Michel and on to the châteaux of the Loire Valley.
What would I find out about myself there, I wondered.
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