Van camping in Europe for beginners
The Incredible Hulk versus 14th century streets
My husband Sam and I just returned from three-plus weeks in Europe, two of which we spent driving across Germany into Italy in a camper van.
This was new for both of us. Sam had recently tried van camping in Utah with a friend, but I’d never done such a thing and neither of us had done it in Europe. Until now, most of our European vacations were pretty traditional: fly into a big city, stay in a hotel or rented apartment, then take a train to the next city.
This was different—with both advantages and limitations. For those curious about van camping in Europe, I’ll share what we learned. But keep in mind that our experiences were short and limited—two weeks, three countries (Germany, Austria, Italy), and we remain novices. For truly expert advice, look elsewhere!
Renting our van
The focus of our trip was research for a historical novel I’m working on. My characters travel from Hamburg in northern Germany to Livorno (near Florence) in the 1600s, and I wanted to retrace their route. Driving would give us more flexibility than trains, and Sam suggested renting a camper van.
There are numerous agencies that rent campers (wohnmobil in German) but few that allow one-way rentals. We contracted with Anywhere Campers, based in Prague, and they were terrific. The van came with everything one might need for a vacation (holiday in British English), from dish soap and cookware to bed linens and towels, a pair of mountain bikes, folding table and camp chairs for outdoor dining, and even a small outdoor grill. Our model—an Adria Matrix, built on a Citroen diesel chassis—included a bathroom and shower. (We didn’t use the shower and instead hung our coats in it.) Also a three-burner propane stove, decent-sized refrigerator, indoor heat, indoor dining table, reading lights over each bed, and a plethora of little cabinets for storage. Everything was smartly designed to provide maximal utility in minimal space.
Anywhere Campers delivered the van to us at a gas station near our hotel in Hamburg, and we set out. Sam did all the driving since I never learned to drive manual transmissions. (An automatic would have cost about $500 more). The first day’s drive seemed easy enough, about 65 kilometers south to a campground on the Luneberg Heath—a patchwork of nature reserves that would give us a sense of what the landscape looked like before modern urbanization—with one stop to stock up on groceries.
Not quite so easy, though. When the Designated Navigator (me) used Google Maps to search along our route for supermarkets, it first directed us to a closed convenience store in a deserted business park. Then it directed us to an actual supermarket, but through a series of back alleys that were NOT built to accommodate a 7.4-meter-long camper van. The supermarket had no parking spots that were large enough for the van: we parked with our rear sticking out into the aisle and hoped that no one would hit us.
Size matters
That was our introduction to the issue of size—the biggest challenge of camper-vanning in Europe.
European streets are narrow. European highways and bridges are narrow. They are especially narrow in those picturesque, historic “old cities” (altstadt in German) where tourists like to go, but they’re also narrow when you’re driving through farmland or small towns. Vans feel like The Incredible Hulk next to most European cars. If you make a wrong turn, it’s often impossible to turn around and you end up circumnavigating the entire town to get back to your intended route. But even going the right way, it’s questionable whether you’ll fit. Google Maps is geared to cars, not campers: in one village, it sent us down a main street with an arched gateway that was simply too small for us. We backed up and took a detour through an entirely different village.
We quickly learned to not even consider driving into those charming historic altstadts: instead, park on the outskirts of town and walk or take transit into the center. Driving on narrow roads, Sam took heart whenever he saw a bus or truck ahead of us: if they could make it through, then we could.
In retrospect, we would have been better off with a smaller model of camper. We’d have gladly traded our unused shower for a narrower vehicle that could navigate European streets more easily.
Classy campgrounds
There are apps such as park4night and pitchup.com that list spots in Europe where you can camp overnight, including free locations like public parking lots. But as first-time van campers, we took a cautious approach and made advance reservations at campgrounds rather than boondocking on the side of the road. Our rental agency advised choosing campgrounds with web ratings of at least four stars, which we did. (We found some through the apps and others through Google.)
We stayed in eight different campgrounds—each with its own character but all universally excellent. Their bathrooms and showers (duschen in German, docce in Italian) were stunningly clean and modern, more like hotel bathrooms than like the rustic, often bedraggled facilities in U.S. parks. (I have no idea if this is also true for campgrounds outside of Germany/Austria and northern Italy.)
Some campgrounds allowed us to pre-order fresh breakfast rolls from a local bakery. Most had an on-site restaurant and small store, as well as laundry facilities. Some were places where families came to spend a week or more on holiday, with children’s playgrounds or a lake for swimming. Others were geared to travelers passing through for a night. In all of them, we were the only Americans that we noticed. All of the campgrounds had reception staff who spoke at least a little English. To give you a sense of the variety:
Camping-park Luneberger-Heide. Our first campground, in a popular German vacation area situated amidst farmland and nature reserves. One day we walked along farm roads to the Luneberg Heath, and another day we used our (sadly ill-fitting) bikes to pedal about 20 minutes to the Pietzmoor, a peat bog nature reserve. Luneberg was an area we would never have visited if we didn’t have a camper van.
Campingplatz Zur Mühle. We wanted to see Nuremberg, and this campground 14 kilometers from the city—on the border between suburb and countryside—was the closest we could find. Planning the trip, I was particularly anxious about this stop and how to get into the altstadt each day. If we drove to a suburban train station, would there be anywhere to park our hulking van? If we biked to the train station, would it be safe to leave our bikes there for the day? Would the schlep into town leave us exhausted before even setting foot in a museum? But my fears weren’t realized: the campground turned out to be across the street from a bus line that terminated at a subway only four stops from the historic quarter. By the second day, we felt like seasoned commuters.
Camping Edelweiss. This campground was tucked into the far end of the Stubai Valley in the Austrian Alps, away from the busy autobahn (German for highway) over the Brenner Pass. We hiked out of the campsite around the edges of the valley, marveling at the spring wildflowers, waterfalls coursing down from glaciated peaks, and cows grazing in the middle of small towns. Our campsite neighbors were Belgians who had come for late spring skiing on the Stubaital glacier: the campsite is apparently popular among skiers seeking a budget alternative to hotels.
Camping Gamp. Another pleasant surprise. I was skeptical since this one was located literally UNDER the autostrada (Italian for highway) on the Italian side of the Brenner Pass, but there was surprisingly little highway noise. (The campsite was in the valley of the pass, while the autobahn was elevated halfway up the mountain.) Plus it was only a five minute walk into the picturesque small town of Chiusa with bakeries, boutiques, and churches along the river. And fresh rolls at the campsite in the morning!
Agriturismo Corte Galvana outside Cento, Italy, where we went to watch a stage of the Giro d’Italia, Italy’s big multi-day bike race. Not a campsite, this was an agriturismo—a working farm that also provides accommodations for tourists. While primarily a hotel (their 14 rooms were filled with other Giro fans and some cycling magazine journalists), they also have two parking spots for camper vans. There was electricity and water for campers, but not the waste disposal facilities typical of regular campgrounds. We rode our ill-fitting bikes on farm roads and a bike trail into town to watch the race; coming home, Sam stopped short on the farm road and I fell into an irrigation ditch filled with muddy water. It was not as dramatic as the massive peleton crash during the Giro stage, but it was our crash.
Logistics
Van camping presents some complications that you wouldn’t face in hotels — buying gas and propane, emptying the toilet waste and grey water, etc. Gas is a significant expense: we filled our tank three times at a cost of more than $120 per tank. Refilling the propane was a bit of a scavenger hunt, since only some gas stations sell that. Google Maps was no help; instead we peered along the highway for gas stations that advertised LPG (German abbreviation for liquified petroleum gas) or GPL (Italian for same). There’s also an app that lists stations that sell propane, although we didn’t get organized enough to try it.
On the other hand, we didn’t have to deal with the logistics of hotel stays—such as hauling your suitcase around and repacking it with every move. It was delightful to unpack once in the van, and then not repack again for two weeks.
It was also convenient to have a bathroom in the camper van, for those times in the middle of a long drive when nature calls but there’s no restroom around!
Economics
You’re probably wondering if it’s cheaper to see Europe by camper than via hotels. I think it is, but not hugely so. You have the costs of renting the camper (more expensive for larger campers, one-way rentals, and automatic transmission) plus gas and campground fees, which vary according to number of people and the size of your pitch (British English for campsite).
You can certainly reduce your camping costs by parking overnight for free in public lots or along roadsides. But as novice campers in unfamiliar countries, we chose to play it safe, paying about $30-50 per night for well-established campgrounds. Gas was $4 or more per gallon for diesel. The camper rental was about $3500 for two weeks.
If we’d stayed in hotels, we probably would have paid $150-200 per night, for a total of about $3000. On top of that, we’d have had to pay for transportation—trains between cities, or car rental to explore rural areas—plus three restaurant meals each day.
Overall, cost shouldn’t be the determining factor in choosing a camper van vacation. There are too many other aspects that will determine whether it’s a good fit for you.
And the verdict is…
So would we rent a camper van in Europe again? Do we recommend it?
Like much in life… it depends.
The van was best suited for visiting rural areas like the Stubai Valley and Luneberg Heath. It can take you off the beaten path, away from other American tourists into a realm of local vacationers. In theory, it’s an opportunity to meet Europeans who are camping alongside you, although this didn’t happen as much as we expected.
Van camping offers more flexibility in where you go and how long you linger than if you have to rely on trains or buses. If you want to be completely spontaneous (we didn’t), you can travel without making reservations and change your itinerary on a moment’s whim.
Like staying in a rented apartment, the camper allows you to cook some of your own meals, which I really appreciated. We offset big restaurant lunches with cereal for breakfast or a homemade salad for supper. And if you’re cooking, you have to shop for groceries, which is fun and eye-opening in foreign countries. It’s also delightful to move from place to place without constantly unpacking and repacking.
On the other hand, a camper van is not great for visiting cities. Yes, we managed to get in and out of Nuremberg on transit but we sacrificed the pleasure of walking out a hotel door into historic, cobblestoned streets or wandering those streets late at night after a relaxed restaurant dinner.
And the driving is stressful. I’m sure it becomes less so with time and experience, but Sam was more than ready to give up our Incredible Hulk by the time we got to Livorno. He needed a vacation from the vacation! It was nice to be back in a hotel with a helpful concierge, in the middle of a walkable city, where narrow streets represented ambiance rather than hazard.
A few tips
Smaller is better when it comes to driving in Europe.
Bikes or motor scooters are a helpful supplement: you can park your van and use bikes for day trips into towns or on country roads. Germany has great bike paths, and I suspect other parts of Europe do too.
Make sure you’re comfortable with your traveling companion! Even a relatively large van is a small living space. You’ll be driving and navigating together, making wrong turns and getting lost together, cooking and eating unfamiliar foods together, and sleeping side by side in a very tight space. If it’s pouring rain, there’s nowhere to go for solitude. Thirty-four years into our marriage, we did fine. But there are not many (any?) other people I would have wanted to do this with.
Here’s a list of the sites where we stayed, all of which we recommend:
Camping-park Luneberger Heide (Luneberg Heath, near Schneverdingen, Germany)
Campingplatz Zur Mühle (Zirndorf, near Nuremberg, Germany)
Campsite Ringlesmuehle (near Nordlingen, Bavaria, Germany)
Via Claudia Camping (Lechbruck, Bavaria, Germany)
Camping Edelweiss (Stubai Valley, Austrian Alps)
Camping Gamp (Chiusa, South Tyrol, Italy)
Il Parco dell‘Adige (Verona, Italy)
Agriturismo Corte Galvana (near Cento, Emilia Romagna, Italy)
And this is not a campsite, but it was so delightful that I want to give it a plug anyway: the Agave in Citta hotel in Livorno, Italy. Spacious suites—they’d be considered spacious even if we hadn’t just emerged from the shoebox of our camper van—in a beautifully renovated 17th century building overlooking the canals of the historic “Venezia Nuova” neighborhood. (Think Venice only smaller, shabbier, and not yet gentrified. Our camper would never have fit there.) Gym, pool, sauna, free bikes, great breakfast buffet, numerous romantic canal-side restaurants within a two-minute walk, and super-helpful staff. Livorno is a working port that gets overlooked by tourists flocking to nearby Florence and Pisa, but it was a wonderful way to conclude our trip.
Google Maps says our entire route covered 1,500 kilometers (930 miles) and could be done in 20 hours of non-stop driving. We made lots of stops and took two weeks. The characters in my novel—traveling by coach and wagon in the 1600s— would probably have required two months to cover this distance.
They didn’t have to worry about fitting through arched gateways. But they also didn’t have paved roads.
And they certainly didn’t have an on-board toilet and reading lights.
Fascinating background. I don't expect I would have your nerve:) But I love the adventure of your research.