If I Had Seven Days and a Van, This Is How I’d Explore Wales

There’s a dangerous thing about writing about van life: eventually you stop daydreaming and start planning the route. After yesterday’s thoughts about naturist van life in Wales, I caught myself wondering what I’d actually do if somebody handed me the keys this morning and said, “Lauren, you’ve got seven days. Go.”

I wouldn’t try to conquer Wales. That rather defeats the point. I’d begin in North Wales, giving myself time for the mountains, a cold-water swim and somewhere peaceful to spend the night. Then I’d wander west towards Llŷn and Anglesey, following the weather rather than a rigid itinerary. The van would give me that wonderful luxury of changing my mind: sunshine over there? Turn left. Interesting beach sign? Investigate. Spectacular view and nowhere I need to be until tomorrow? Kettle on. Anglesey even has designated overnight motorhome locations, which makes responsible van travel easier when planning the route.

Then I’d slowly point south. Not motorway south — Welsh coast south. Down through Ceredigion, stopping for coastal walks and little harbours, before eventually reaching Pembrokeshire. I’d look for proper campsites, small independent pitches and private land where staying overnight is welcomed. And this is where naturist van life becomes interesting. I don’t need every mile of the journey to be naturist. Give me somewhere private and appropriate to enjoy breakfast naturally, somewhere for a secluded swim where conditions allow, then I’ll happily pull my clothes on and disappear off exploring for the day. Naturism travels with me; it doesn’t have to dominate the itinerary.

My biggest rule would be simple: leave places happier that I came. Pay for the pitch. Buy something from the village shop. Have lunch in the local café. Respect landowners, communities and overnight-parking rules. Take the rubbish home and never confuse having a campervan with having permission to camp wherever I fancy. Seven days later I suspect I’d arrive home with damp towels, muddy boots, far too many photographs and a list of another twenty places I hadn’t managed to reach. And perhaps that’s the secret of van life in Wales: the best journey isn’t the one where you see everything. It’s the one that gives you a reason to turn the key and go again.