BA - The Club - Five festive epic drives

Peak District to South Wales

Says who? Dave Keogh, who lives and works in Buxton
Finishing work at 4:30pm, I can be with my family in southwest Wales by 9pm, traffic forgiving. First I pass the little market town of Leek, glimpsing the warm glow inside farmhouse windows and occasional ‘Santa stop here!’ sign. I’m grateful for the better lighting on the M6 until the RAC recovery building (screaming ‘Notice me!’) reminds me the M5 is nigh. I whip into the services for a coffee pit stop quicker than a Formula 1 team since it’s ten minutes till closing. Crossing the border into Wales, great castles and forest emerge. As the M4 turns into the A48, Chris Rea croons on the radio. Eventually home, the family Labrador is always pleased to see me. Village walks and a cracking Christmas dinner await. It’s good to be back with the family.

Marseille to Mont Ventoux

Says who? Caroline Craig, whose family lives in Provence
London in the lead up to Christmas is a wonderful sort of chaos, and so I relish the prospect of a few weeks of stillness back home beside the fire. I’ll get picked up in Marseille by my parents. Dad will load my oversized suitcase into the boot, stuffed with Terry’s chocolate oranges, and then we’ll take the road north into Provence proper. Hordes of tourists gone, the quiet air is filled with the scent of woodsmoke, and Mont Ventoux, ‘le géant de Provence’, is covered with a soft blanket of snow. As we leave the motorway, mediaeval cities give way to market towns, and these to chocolate-box villages festooned with garlands and twinkling lights. Avignon, Carpentras, Mazan… when I see the first sign for Bédoin, I know I’m almost home.

New York to The Berkshires

Says who: Suzie Heyworth, whose family lives in Massachusetts
Forgive me, readers: this isn’t strictly a road trip. It starts on the 8:03am train from Grand Central Terminal, New York, to New Haven, Connecticut – a two-hour journey that smugly removes me the traffic frenzy of those leaving NYC for Christmas. The train may get me out of the city, but it’s an Avis car hire from New Haven that will take me to Lenox, Massachusetts. I could take the 91 via Springfield, but I prefer Route 8. A showreel of small-town America, this highway takes me past truckers and roadside motels; state forests looming tall either side, some trees still holding on to their autumn colours. As the 183 morphs into Route 7, I’m back in Lenox, heart of the bucolic Berkshires, and asking, “Where’s the turkey?”

Oxford to Cumbria

Says who? Bryony Bowie, from Penrith
“An early start beats the traffic,” we say, turning into our parents. The big suitcases are slotted, tetris-like, into the car along with clinking bottles of homemade sloe gin for presents. The road ahead gleams pearlescent with a layer of frost. There’s a rare Oxfordshire hill we look out for on the M40 that’s all trees as far as you can see, the motorway a seam in the centre of it all. Then, excitement builds on the M6 where, after Lancaster, fell tops emerge shrouded in mist. Finally, our favourite part: the Tebay trees. No one knows how this heart-shaped patch came to be, but my favourite story is of a farmer planting it as a symbol of love for his wife.

Auckland to Wellington, New Zealand

Says who? Felicity Douglas, from Wellington
Non-stop, it’s an eight-hour drive from Auckland to my parents’ place in Wellington down south. We do stop, though, because it’s impossible not to. Jumping on the country’s longest highway (the 1), the city’s cleared in minutes, replaced by lush green expanses. We stop for a breather and sinus clear out at Taupo geothermal baths, grabbing a warm coffee, then back in the car. Look down, you’re met with Lake Taupo’s tranquil expanse. Look up, it’s Tongariro’s rust-coloured, volcanic slopes. Then we’re straight shooting for another four hours of rolling hills until the ocean opens up on our right and, before I know it, my wheels are rolling into Miramar and my parents’ over-illuminated house. We’ll get a good night’s sleep, a hearty Christmas lunch and then a Boxing Day movie at The Roxy (traditions – hey, what are we without them?).