The essence of our trip is to have two vehicles travelling together, with Louise and Andy driving one and the second driven by a constantly rotating group of people.

The first vehicle had to spend a few days in London to obtain visas for Sudan. Which was a fruitless exercise – more on that at a later date. The second, driven on this first leg by Andy’s dad, Robert, and his wife, Susan, skipped London to meet us in Belgium. We had already spent a lovely weekend with Margaret, Ton, Christine and Erik (Andy’s aunt and family).

We are now suffering for the cause with 6 inches of fresh powder snow in Flaine, again sponging off friends, staying in an apartment owned by one of Andy’s academic advisors from Queen’s University. However since we’re using free wifi in a pub and aren’t organised enough to have any skiing pictures on the laptop, here’s a lovely picture of us together as a team for the first time, leaving Brasschaat two days ago.

Leaving after lunch for a 13 hour drive

Surfing Africa leaving Brasschaat as a team, after lunch, for a 13 hour drive into the Alps

Automated numberplate recognition doing its thing

Automated numberplate recognition doing its thing

The least interesting border so far

France-Belgium - least interesting border so far

In recent years in Europe, we’ve been spoilt by the expectation that borders, a mere formality, should not hinder our movement. So much so that when crossing in the tunnel from the UK to France, we did not speak to a single person. An automated system recognised our numberplate and assigned us to a train 90 minutes before our booked departure, a sleepy customs man saw the red passports Louise was about to pass to him and disinterestedly waved us past, and an automated barrier drew us onto the train.

Belgium-Holland - nothing to write home about

Belgium-Holland - nothing to write home about

The exciting side of the Belgium-Holland border

The exciting side of the Belgium-Holland border

France to Belgium was hard to spot. In fact we thought we were in Belgium 5 minutes before we actually were, when we realised all the places on the signs were Belgian. When we hit the border, it was at 70mph, and with far more acknowledgement that we were entering Flanders than Belgium (the region being more important than the country, when the region defines the language and culture, and the country defines, well not very much).


Belgium to Holland was more interesting today, being in Putte, a small village that straddles the border. Which had been marked by the Dutch, never ones to shy from offending those conservative neighbours, by a sex shop on their side. And very little else.

Our Carnets are yet to emerge from the box in the boot, our passports yet to be opened. But somehow I doubt these crossings will remain in our minds as typical border experiences from this trip.

The pictures above are from our in-vehicle webcam – see more here.