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In one of the coldest Novembers on record, I travelled half way across the country to pick up a dog. I had never had a dog of my own. Sure, there have been many family dogs- Perry, Jess, Tess, Chunko, but never one to call my own. Parker, as we later called her, was to be mine.
The moment she crossed the wooden threshold from the cold of the car into the warmth of our kitchen both my husband and I fell in love. She was dark brown, with curly blond highlights like an 80s pop star, and had eyes the colour of grapefruit. Within 24 hours we had surrendered both our bed and our lives to her.
By late spring my husband and I started to think about where we would travel that year. A luxury week away in Greece? A foodie tour around Corsica? A long haul fly and flop?
‘Actually, I think we should drive through France,’ my husband said brightly. ‘And I think we should take Parker.’
I was 33 and had only passed my driving test 6 months earlier. I cried trying to reverse park and believed British motorways were designed to kill me. My husband hadn’t driven a car properly in years, let alone a car in France. Was taking your dog on holiday the preserve of the mad; like those bouffant women you see in restaurants who pass morsels of food from plate to dog and back again? (Reader, I am now that woman.)
But here is what we did know: Parker was a Labradoodle. We did the maths. If, if we were lucky, we would get 13, maybe 14 years with this creature who had climbed inside our hearts. We wanted to give her the best life possible. We wanted to gift her the very best of us. We wanted to spend every minute we could with this newest of family members whose own life we knew, was likely to stop short before our own.
And so it was decided. We would take Parker on holiday.
Of course there were forms to be filled and special rabies jabs to be had, but really remarkably little. A few days later we were presented with a royal blue booklet: Parker’s passport. She was ready to hit the continent.
That first trip we travelled down to the far south eastern corner of France, just south of Perpignan, for no other reason than there was only one house on the entire villa rental website that looked relatively stylish and allowed dogs. (This was our first lesson: if you take Fido, you may have to forgo a little luxury when it comes to renting private properties).
We could have done the entire trip in one day but because we were new, overly-anxious dog parents we worried about things like Parker needing a pee every twenty minutes, or whether she would get cramp from sitting in the same position for too long - clearly we were projecting. And so we decided to amble: four days in various towns we had never heard off, in hotels that advertised themselves as dog-friendly. Suddenly travelling across France became a true road trip.
The holiday was a revelation. Firstly, with a dog at the end of a lead the French transformed before out very eyes; their hard, sulky expressions lifted to smiles and whispers of ‘magnifique’ under their breath every time Parker crossed their path. And travelling with her was seamless. Almost every restaurant not only accommodated dogs, but genuinely encouraged them. Waiters would rush up to Parker, tickle her chin and then field silver dishes of water to her all evening long.
Most luxury hotels allowed dogs too. And three star Michelin restaurants. And shops. And public transport. France, it turned out was not just a nation of dog lovers, it was a nation of dog obsessives.
After the success of that trip, we decided to push ourselves. We planned a longer trip the following year; this time two weeks in The Luberon, the mountain range north of the Cote D’Azur.
We also decided to get another dog.
At that point we had decided Parker was too smart for toys like squeaky balls and Kongs filled with peanut butter - now, of course we realise everyone thinks their dog is Einstein in a dog suit. And so we bought her a living, breathing plaything called Jones; a goldendoodle with paws the size of bagels. We traded in our lovely, little sports car for a big truck of a vehicle so they could both travel down in style. We saved hard, knowing hotels charged doubled for two dogs. (Most hotels charge for each dog though the price varies wildly, as I’ll explain below). We also prepared for the fact it would further limit our accommodation options since only a minute number of villas would take two dogs. Especially two very big dogs. (Jones is the size of a Shetland pony)
And then we were set.
If travelling with one dog was a revelation, then travelling with two was like having a secret passport to the world. People, often presuming we were local (since no one sane would travel with two giant, hairy dogs ) would stop and chat. Though they soon discovered to their chagrin we were British, they still insisted on sharing local tips- the best restaurants to eat, the best beaches to visit, what time of the year to come to avoid les vrais touristes. As a result we have been to secret coves in The Calanques and have dined in restaurants along The Camargue that only those who have been living there for decades frequent.
Since dogs must be walked, they also force you to see another side to the country too. And so we have traipsed through forests at dawn (much cooler) and watched sunsets along river banks long after the fishermen have gone. The walks we have taken across France and Italy are not to be found on any Tik Tok video or Lonely Planet guide. They are genuinely off the beaten track. In the most glorious sense of that phrase.
But here’s what else happens when you travel with your dog: you get the best out of each other. On holiday my husband and I are looser people. We laugh more, touch more, respond to the world in a kinder, more thoughtful way. We want our dogs to see that, to experience it, to be part if it.
But in their own way dogs are different on holiday too. On holiday Jones will find a slice of sun first thing in the morning and rub his head and belly along the place where it touches the earth. Parker too is changed. She has seemingly unprovoked fits of sheer delirium where she will jump in the air, teeth bared in a sort of maniacal grin before landing to the ground where she will proceed to spin like a pinwheel. We say she’s ‘gone electrified.’
Their joy is our joy, and because dogs are joyous pretty much all of the time, the happiness never ends. Dogs, quite rightly, remind us how utterly illogical it is to be unhappy on holiday.
Over the last decade we have taken Parker and Jones to Italy, Spain, Switzerland and of course France many times over. They have visited the Cathedral of Santa Maria Del Fiore, and spend an afternoon bathing in The Arno. (I’m not sure if that’s strictly allowed but hey, they were hot). They have climbed the Alps, and sat in the asylum bedroom where Van Gogh painted some of his masterpieces. I have shared some of the most spectacular sunsets with Parker and Jones; wandered through dream landscapes with them and have memories that are as much shaped by them being there as the very destination themselves. Sure, Florence without a dog is a true marvel. But Florence with your dog is a trip you will never forget.
Parker and Jones are elderly dogs now, 12 and 10 respectively. They have grey in their beards. Parker is on arthritis medication and Jones has liver spots scattered across his belly. Few things excite them like they used to: not walks in the back fields, not balls that bounce twice as high as they can jump, not even little slithers of baked pigs liver dropped into their mouths when they least expect it. But a car loaded with suitcases, dog beds and two tattered doggie bandanas stained with salt from the sea is enough to transform them, even if momentarily, back the young dogs they once were. Parker will leap into the passenger seat, whilst Jones will plant himself by the boot of the car was as though to say: ‘you’re not going anywhere without me.’
And every time I tell him the same thing: not a chance buddy. Not a chance.
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Interested in exactly how we did it and our absolute favourite places to stay? Then read on…