There was an auspicious start to Roadtrip 2 ©: wakened as the sun started to rise across London a pearlescent blue sky accompanied our rapid departure speeding down the A whatever, so heavily strewn with speed cameras I was getting whiplash within 5 miles.

From an 0430 start we made it to Dover and the chunnel link with time to spare at 0630, and after a more than welcome breakfast of a proper English fry up (no bacon for Nik, natch) accompanied by some shampoo rolled onto the carriage that was to take us to Europe.

We had some initial confusion in the tunnel as we assembled our Europe ‘pack’: a magnetic GB sticker for the car (which stuck no where and ended up on the roof for appearance sake), some light deflectors (with instructions that even the most studious of scholars would have needed a rossetta stone to decode) and a high visibility jacket (that I could not pursued Nik to wear).

30 minutes later Audrey, Nik and I nosed onto the first of the French freeways and had our first altercation: the navigation. I had planned a route through the country mostly keeping to the toll roads and other major tributaries, however Audrey’s in car system was determined to keep us off the fast lanes and on the farm roads.

This experience bore a remarkable resemblance the last roadtrip when XX, who’s map reading skills we relied on entirely, guided us miles into the Nevada desert with no form of civilisation in sight, causing us to run out of petrol and miss our show in Vegas. Taking a firm stance I laid down the law and insisted we kept to the route I had planned, conceding that we could ‘consult with Audrey’.

It was a fortunate move and as we drove rapidly towards Paris, rarely dropping below a compfortable cruising speed of 150kph the reality that we were driving to Ibiza set in. Paris came and went in a traffic jam of boring proportions, and as we crossed the Seine the rest of the country opened up ahead of us, the greys and browns of the north turning into the more luscious and verdant greens of le midi central.

Midday came around and tired and hungry we pulled into some anonymous lay-by, crammed a toastie down our necks and caught up on an hour of sleep. Nik, apparently not used to napping on the continent, left the car on, and the heating turned up and on. We awoke an hour later, sweating like farm animals, but refreshed enough to continue towards the beckoning southern coast.

It was at this point we had to make a decision: go via Perpignon and save time, or head towards Toulouse and go over the mountains. As my mother is planning on a move to the former city I was in favour of that route, but the promise of hairbreak turns, gorgeous views and imminent danger won us both over in the end. A brief adjustment to the route, we called the ever faithful Melanie at Altour who looked into some accommodation for the night. I had a talk with Audrey at this point and managed to override her desire for back streets, and have her plot the route to Toulouse at a rather different tempo to her usually glacially slow routes.

Shrew tamed, Novotel booked, 8 hours and 700 miles on the clock we were in good shape as we sped through Limoges and the fields took on the unmistakable hue of gold that is only found in Van Gogh paintings and the south of France.

The roads are excellent in France and as we were sticking mostly to the toll roads, which while not cheap for long journeys, are worth it as they seemed unpatrolled by the local gendarmerie. Another pleasant surprise was the politeness of drivers: when in the fast lane, indicators were used and it was only used literally to overtake. There was no sign of the raving psychotics that are so often talked about stalking the roads of Paris.

After another brief pit stop, and a brief stint at 150mph, we pulled around the mountain to the lush sight of Toulouse. It was almost 2100 by this stage, and we were both tired, but buoyed up by the prospect of a swim in a pool, some nice dinner and the pumping sounds of XXX the last few kilometres closed quickly, and after a brief stop of in a competitor’s hotel we found our home for night.

Modern, well fitted out, the Novotel was a pleasant surprise, and after a dip in the outdoor pool we were ushered to a table by our waiter Johan, who was by anyone’s standards quite a character. Immediately ordering a bottle of Muscadet sur Lies (which arrived flawlessly chilled) we settled in to a delightfully tasty dinner.

WE staggered to bed and woke to the rude awakening of the alarm at 0630. 0715 saw us racing away from the hotel, having filled up on croissants and dark syrupy coffee. The most exciting part of our journey lay ahead of us, and before long we started to rise into the foothills of the Pyrenees, the fields of corn and vineyards giving way to deciduous woods and quaint towns rearing suddenly into sight, only to vanish just as quickly.

By 2500 feet the mountains were astride us and the roads, which were still excellent, were becoming thinner, and windy with tight corners and a plethora of warning signs. In what was to proof his most excellent show of driving skill yet, the Dunhill gloves were donned and line after line of ‘you’re never going to overtake them all’ tailbacks were swiftly overtaken, cut up and left in our dusty wake. I lost count of the number of times we were flashed.

Still no police though!

Unfortunately our path did not take us into Andorra itself, and after we drove through some extortionately charged tunnel the roads levelled out and started to descend again. We crossed the Spanish border however and started onto long wide fast roads again, some of which were still under construction. At this point, for the first time in our trip we spotted a police car, or guarda civilian as they have emblazoned on the 4x4. A game of cat and mouse ensued with the police man driving in the inner lane at exactly the 100kph speed limit, occasionally dropping to 90 so that we could start to overtake.

We decided the risk wasn’t worth taking and dropped behind him watching in amusement as several other vehicles encountered the same treatment. In the end he got bored and we sped off doing the last 40 kilometres into Barcelona in a matter of moments.

Arriving in Barcelona, a comic moment ensued as we got out of the car in the now sweltering heat, and decided to change outfits. I forgot to mention that there was a significant amount of luggage in the car, and of course the right outfit is never stored in just one of the many bags. Anyway, clothes and flips flops discovered we stripped off in the parking lot and got into more suitable gear before setting off for the docks and the prospect of a tasty lunch.

We set off into the harbour searching for a spot to have a tasty beverage but found a long stream of not quite open restaurants and a boat from Goergetown that was positively gargantuan. Stumbling onto a mall filled with wide variety of shops, each of which contained clothes or other assorted items that defied purchase due to their tackiness, we made the huge mistake of going to a tapas bar on the water front.

The writing wall on the wall: no locals, few patrons and high prices. The food arrived swimming in fat and was pretty much inedible. Unfortunately our hunger took the better of us and we chowed down anyway. Moments after finishing the carbo rape hit us and we limped back towards the mall in desperate search of anything to wipe the taste from our mouths. Ben and Jerrys came to the rescue, and as we walked back towards our car and the waiting ferry to Ibiza Nik started positively hissing and spitting at the restaurant. One of the staff caught notice and was looking at him quizzically, almost as though wondering if he should call for help. As a gaggle of American tourists started to make their way towards the place a shriek of advice was howled across the marina, “Don’t go, it’s crap!”

Thus began the ferry trip to Ibiza ...