It was a slight surprise. The caravan, a larger-than-average wedding present, was parked on the main road, a bit too corpulent for our driveway. There was, in truth, some caravanning DNA in the family; my husband Pete grew up assuming that caravans were standard equipment on childhood holidays; I grew up in Australia, where caravans spoke of ‘The Great Outdoors’, rather than rain-swept cliffs and wailing children, “cabin’d, cribb’d, and confined”.

Nevertheless, there were some early mistakes; we once failed to hook the caravan up properly, and through a combination of simple Newtonian rules, we went one way and the caravan wobbled back the other.

But our caravan holidays have been great adventures. With our two young daughters in tow, we have explored the depths of ‘La France Profonde’, as well as the glitzier parts of the Cote d’Azur. The ‘mustbook- ahead’ Med excepted, we have by and large gone where wind and whim have chosen.

Last summer, we took the Saint-Malo crossing from Portsmouth, earning us some extra hop-scotch time on deck. After skimming the old-fashioned resorts of Normandy, we struck camp on the Ile de Ré. The weather was awful, but you should never underestimate the power of the awning. It doubles the size of your moveable home, giving you a front room or a terrace. We sat the rain out for 24 hours before upping sticks. Thankfully, the microclimate of this beautiful Atlantic island proved to be very micro indeed. We headed an hour inland and found a campsite basking in 32°C.

Returning to the western coast, we parked behind the epic Dune de Pyla, the greatest sand dune in all Europe. The four of us struggled to the top like half-dressed Foreign Legionnaires, greeting the sun rising above Arcachon Bay, where windsurfers and parascenderes already dotted the shoreline.

Days began to mimic themselves;beginning with a bike ride ‘en famille’ to the nearest café for coffee and juice, followed by a leisurely second breakfast on the beach.

Our smoothish line south then kinked back up to St. Emilion. We’d assumed it would be an arid place of winemakers and crumpled-linen Brits, but we were pleasantly surprised by how tranquil and leafy green this famous wine town was. The restaurants in the glorious medieval streets even tempted us away from our beloved Barbecue.

To truly enjoy a caravan, it’s vital you master the Barbecue. Man cannot live by sausages alone, so my repertoire soon extended to kebabed vegetables and herbs, foil-wrapped potatoes and grilled fish, with rice or ratatouille made on the tiny hob and accompanied by that day’s ‘salade à la caravane’.

Provence was calling. The long French holiday deepened; the campsites became full of children. We saw no other English children amidst the gaggles of French and Dutch kids, but there were always dozens the same ages as ours, playing and yakking away in mutually intelligible tongues.

Days now drifted. In spite of the heat, we made sure we did something cultural each day, particularly during the long sun-shaped holes either side of lunch. Though the caravan cupboards aren’t exactly Narnia-like, we were able to pull out a few glamorous outfits for our forays to the Cote d’Azur.

Once we’d reached the Med, there was no more France in front of us. We reluctantly turned a wide arc north, comforted by the knowledge that if we’d been paying for hotels we’d have turned back weeks before.

We checked the oil and drove into the isolated hills of the Ardèche. We stumbled across Eyrieux in the north, where we swam in cool rivers and canoed through stunning valleys. Then it was on to Meursault, near the Burgundian gateway dividing northern and southern France. We cycled on well-marked trails, idling through famous vineyards where the grapes were just starting to hang heavy.

After Meursault, the pull of the north became stronger. Nonetheless, we never broke our four-hours-a-day rule for driving. As the girls kept continental hours, we drove in the mornings while they caught up on sleep.

A final few days at a campsite in Epernay, home to half of the ‘Grand Maisons’ of French Champagne.

From Champagne, there was a final push to Calais and home. The caravan now sits in a nearby field, patiently waiting its next journey South.

FRENCH CAMPSITE LOWDOWN

The Alan Rogers Campsite Guide to France www.alanrogers.com is the Bible for good sites.
www.camping-castels.co.uk is a website dedicated to the 38 poshest camping sites in France; they are often in the grounds of Chateaux, and are always nicely landscaped.
Our favourite so far was the Domaine de la Barbanne in Saint Emilion.

TOP TIP ONE: The further south you go, the more likely it is you'll need to book ahead. It's worth booking anywhere on the Mediterranean in advance.

TOP TIP TWO: If you are looking for tranquility, ask for a place as far from the pool and bar as possible when you make the booking. Plus, steer clear of any campsites that offer a wide range of entertainment – they are likely to be a magnet for families with teenagers. However, if you have teenagers yourself...