David Hurst: why our family chose life on the road

Seeing the whale had a lasting effect on our boys, Darley and Daniel, 4 and 5, who had leapt out of bed at the prospect of spotting something that, at between seven and ten metres long, was bigger than the motorhome we had been travelling in. The minke fulfilled Darley’s hunger for knowledge of marine creatures, which includes the ability to identify a dozen dolphin and whale species.

Equally astonishing to us was when Daniel paid for butter himself as we ate breakfast. Our boys’ self-confidence has grown immeasurably since we began our eight-month family adventure. “I worked out the lady was French, so I asked for beurre, said merci, then au revoir,” he said, looking all grown up, then adding, “I can’t actually remember what au revoir means, but I knew it was French . . .”

A sequence of tragic events led us to downsize from our dreamy 16th-century Devon cottage, buy the aptly named Swift Escape motorhome and take our family on the road. First my Uncle David, a seemingly healthy 67-year-old, died three weeks after developing a sore throat that a post-mortem examination revealed to be oesophageal cancer. Then a friend, Tim, a businessman and seasoned traveller I’d met in the Caribbean 25 years before, emailed to say: “I might just kill myself.” We tried to help, but two months later discovered through Facebook that he’d hanged himself at the age of 48.

Several months later I stood with my brother Mark in front of our father. “Whatever happens to me,” he said, his eyes, although faltering, held strongly on us, “look after your mother.” Dad’s heart specialist, who had told him there was nothing more he could do, couldn’t say whether his death was imminent or he would live for years. He told us to get on with our lives. I contemplated how in 30 years I could be where my father was, with our two sons standing in front of me.

We decided to heed the words of my Aunt Alison after Uncle David’s funeral: “Now if anyone says they’re waiting to do something they’ve always wanted to, I urge them to do it now.”

So in March last year we took a three-week motorhome-hire holiday to see the part of Spain where Debs had grown up, something we had promised to do so since we met in Kingston-upon-Thames 12 years before. On the way home we decided we had to find money for one of our own. We decided to downsize, selling the cottage where I thought we would grow old together. When I voiced doubts about how much less we would be able to pass on to our children, Debs looked me in the eye, and asked: “Is it more important to leave something when we’re gone or give everything while we’re still here?”

My wife and I both did work that we loved — she was a pre-school teacher and riding instructor, I had been a freelance writer for 25 years — but we realised that life is precious and precarious.

Family time seems to be increasingly low among on people’s priorities. Research by the Highland Spring Group has revealed that the average British family spends just 34 minutes a day together, much of it in silence because everyone is staring at a television or an iPad. Surely life had to be about people and moments rather than things?

So we selected our motorhome and devised plans to visit as many friends as possible in the summer before Daniel started school. After Tim’s suicide we’d been aghast that, although we had been in touch every week, it had been five years since we had seen him. Social media had created an illusion.

Arrangements were made to visit 150 friends around Britain and Spain. However after we moved house, the motorhome’s delivery was held up. We had to abandon our plans or delay our boys’ schooling until January. It would have been safer to stay at home and send them to school — but we wanted to show that adventurous risk-taking could bring rewards beyond wildest dreams. We emailed the school.

When the motorhome arrived in late September we had a day to pack and set off, neither of us wanting to drive first, and we reached the first campsite not even knowing our electric plug-up from the hole for the water tank. However, soon we were in the rhythm of camping. We discovered that Debs is much better at parking, so on arrival at every campsite I jumped out, then waved my arms about pretending to direct her in.

Within days we noticed that the boys were far more inquisitive. When we’d shown them photos of places we would visit they were interested, but not keenly. When they actually saw places such as Stonehenge or Hadrian’s Wall they passionately asked questions.

In Spain their enthusiasm continued, whether we visited city, campo or costa. They learnt Spanish and other languages on the campsites, and as Christmas approached, instead of being indoors rehearsing a nativity play, they were holding goats at an outdoors Spanish Christmas fiesta and playing in the snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains. In Andalusia we watched, arm in arm, the most stunning sunset we had seen. The morning after my father died.

We flew home for the funeral, then back several days later. Our new way of life seemed even more essential. So when we returned home in January we knew what we had to do. We devised a tour of Britain, Spain, Morocco and Portugal, staying on 30 campsites. Children in Britain have to be in full-time education by the term after their fifth birthday, but while education is compulsory, schooling is not. So we told their school we would teach them as we travelled for the remaining school year. The school has been wonderfully supportive, giving us information such as the levels the boys should reach by certain terms.

Without doubt they have learnt immeasurably from seeing places such as the Picasso Museum in Málaga, the Caves of Nerja, the Alhambra Palace in Granada and the expansive Volubilis Roman ruins in Morocco. We have spent days wandering among nature, and at night gazed at stars to learn astronomy and science. For all of us it has been awe-inspiring.

Even so, we have had moments of doubt and would reconsider if we felt that weren’t enjoying each other’s company or that academically our children were not doing as well as they would at school. There have been moments, too, when we’ve been lost around a city or when trying to find somewhere in our small living space to send one of the boys to calm down. The first time this happened I sent Daniel to sit in the cab, only to find the happiest boy in the world two minutes later quietly pretending he was a racing driver at the steering wheel.

When we got back from Spain in May we went home for a few days, then went on the road again, visiting such landmarks as Bletchley Park, Salisbury Cathedral and Tintagel Castle.

We’ve also been invited to the Brighton beachfront home of Norman Cook, aka Fatboy Slim, for a music lesson for the boys — we had a compelling conversation with Cook and his wife, the presenter Zoë Ball, about every parent’s concern about getting the balance between providing financially and having family time together.

Then we visited the bestselling author Peter James’s mansion for lunch and an English lesson. We have also met the Olympic diver Tonia Couch at Plymouth Life Centre to watch her train and to get her advice on how to achieve through dedication; we also met the England under-19 cricketer Joe Weatherley before a match at the Ageas Bowl and Edward Sexton, the tailor who trained Stella McCartney.

We recently told the school we would be keeping our boys off for another year. From seeing how beneficial this has been to their education, self-confidence and our family bonding, we’ve developed a campsite educational model. As the new term starts we’ll return to Spain to find an inspirational location for it. We’re focused on making this dream a reality and hope to give other families a chance to spend time together and inspire a world of new adventurers.

To follow the Hurst family’s journey, visit: face2fb.wordpress.com

@davidhurstuk