Markus Anecdotes - A Typical Dutch Summer Holiday: The Great European Adventure

Authored by Markus, with photographs by Markus

Every summer, as the school bells ring for the last time before the long break, something extraordinary happens in the Netherlands. The peaceful suburban streets start buzzing with activity. Campers are pulled out of storage, caravans are washed and checked, and garage doors open to reveal stacks of camping chairs, bicycles, and coolers. It’s the beginning of the sacred Dutch tradition: the summer holiday road trip to the south of Europe. To outsiders, it might just seem like a holiday. But to the Dutch, it’s a cultural ritual.

It all began in earnest after World War II, when the Netherlands experienced economic growth and more people could afford their own cars. By the 1960s, the idea of taking the whole family on the road — in a packed car or with a caravan — became part of the Dutch identity. Roads improved, camping sites popped up across France, Spain, and Italy, and suddenly a whole generation of Dutch people began to associate their summers with baguettes, mountains, and Mediterranean sun.

But the Dutch don’t just go on holiday. They prepare for it like they’re invading Normandy. There’s a saying: “Een goede voorbereiding is het halve werk” — “Good preparation is half the job.” Packing starts weeks in advance. Lists are made, inventories are checked, and arguments over who forgot the tent pegs become family lore. Dutch people don’t travel light. They pack everything. Inflatable boats, bicycles, portable fridges, badminton sets, cheese slicers, mosquito nets, and sometimes even a small Dutch flag for the camping spot.

And then, there’s the food. The Dutch are fiercely loyal to their cuisine — even when hundreds of kilometers away from home. Instead of enjoying fresh local delicacies in France or Italy, they bring jars of Calvé peanut butter, packs of sliced cheese, and loaves of bread from Albert Heijn. A Dutch family on holiday might be surrounded by vineyards and olive groves and still make a lunch of boterham met pindakaas — bread with peanut butter. The thought of surviving two weeks without hagelslag (chocolate sprinkles) is simply too much to bear.

And it’s not just peanut butter. Dutch campers bring stroopwafels (syrup waffles), hagelslag, packs of sliced Gouda, and drop — the famously polarizing salty black licorice. Locals often look puzzled when Dutch families unpack entire portable pantries at a French camping ground. A Belgian campsite owner once remarked, “The Dutch come with everything except the kitchen sink — although sometimes they bring that too.” There’s even a famous anecdote of a Dutch father scolding a child for asking for a croissant, saying, “We have perfectly good crackers from home!”

Departure day is an event in itself. Most Dutch families wake up before dawn, hoping to “beat the traffic.” Yet ironically, so does everyone else. This creates a uniquely Dutch phenomenon: the pre-vacation traffic jam. Dutch radio stations provide live updates with names like “Black Saturday” — notorious days when highways clog with caravans all heading south. Children, tightly strapped in the backseats surrounded by bags, whine, “Are we there yet?” before the car has even left Brabant. Parents, half-awake, begin the long trek toward the sun, clutching coffee in travel mugs and trying to remember if they packed the passports.

The road trip itself is a crucial part of the experience. Dutch families can drive for twelve, sometimes even fifteen hours straight, powered by homemade sandwiches (with — you guessed it — peanut butter), coffee from a thermos, and endless patience. Classic roadside rest stops like “Aire de la Chaponne” in France are burned into collective memory, not for beauty but for the sheer number of Dutch license plates. Some families plan their entire journey around well-rated rest stops, with clean toilets and good parking. Others rely on intuition, which usually ends in a chaotic stop at a gas station with one broken toilet and a machine that only sells lukewarm cola.

Crossing borders adds a layer of excitement and confusion. The first time the car enters Belgium, someone always points out, “The roads are bumpier here.” At the French border, parents suddenly switch to broken high school French. “Bonjour, une baguette s’il vous plaît,” said with the confidence of a UN translator. And then there’s the paperwork: passports, pet vaccination records, insurance documents, camping cards. Once, a Dutch couple tried to cross into Spain only to realize they had accidentally brought the dog’s papers instead of their daughter’s. “At least the dog is vaccinated,” the father joked.

Campers and caravans add their own set of challenges. Driving a caravan through the narrow roads of Provence requires nerves of steel and a strong relationship. “Left! No, your other left!” becomes the soundtrack of every couple’s holiday. One famously viral story involves a Dutch man who reversed his caravan into a vineyard while trying to exit a campsite. The resulting trail of crushed grapes and shouting in three languages was captured on video and shared across Dutch social media with the title “Wine Not?”

Once settled at the campsite, a different kind of chaos begins. Setting up a tent can make or break a marriage. Pegs go missing, poles are bent, and someone always insists the ground isn’t level. But when everything’s finally up, there’s a sense of triumph. The Dutch decorate their camping plots like small embassies — fairy lights, Dutch flags, windmills, and sometimes even garden gnomes. Campers greet each other like old friends, even if they’ve never met. “Waar kom je vandaan?” — “Where are you from?” is the typical opening line. Bonus points if you’re also from Brabant.

Despite being far from home, many families stick to Dutch routines. Breakfast at 8, lunch at 12, dinner at 6. This can be a cultural surprise in countries like Spain, where locals eat dinner at 9 or later. A Dutch family once sat alone in an Italian pizzeria at 6pm, wondering why no one else was there. The waiter kindly explained: “Dinner starts at eight.” The family nodded politely, then pulled out their emergency jar of peanut butter and made sandwiches at the table. Practicality always wins.

Weather, of course, plays a role. Many Dutch tourists head south to escape the rain — only to be met with heatwaves. Suddenly, the same people who spent months complaining about cold are now hiding from the sun under makeshift tarps and damp towels.

One grandmother was seen sitting in a kiddie pool with a hat and umbrella, sipping iced tea like royalty. “Too hot,” she declared, “next year, we’re going to Denmark.”

Children adapt quickly. At first, they’re homesick. They miss their friends, their pets, and their Dutch Wi-Fi. But within a day, they’re running barefoot, speaking a mix of Dutch, French, and improvised sign language with kids from across Europe.

They trade Pokémon cards, build sandcastles, and ride bikes in wild circles. They find joy in the simplest things: catching frogs, burning marshmallows, and staying up past bedtime. And every child remembers the magical trip to a local amusement park, where even if the roller coaster was terrifying, the ice cream afterward made everything okay.

Then there are the gadgets. The Dutch are known for their love of camping gear. Not just tents and coolers, but specialized items like folding coffee makers, windbreakers for beach picnics, collapsible laundry racks, and solar-powered fairy lights. One family even brought a portable dishwasher — though it turned out to be more of a talking point than a functional tool. “The plates come out dirtier,” the father admitted, “but at least we tried.”

Cultural misunderstandings are inevitable. Dutch honesty can surprise southern hosts. When asked if they liked the local wine, one Dutch guest replied, “It’s okay, but a bit acidic.” In return, locals might be baffled by the sheer number of bikes. One Spanish hotel owner once asked a Dutch guest, “Do you really ride these everywhere?” The answer, of course, was yes. Even on vacation.

Local shopkeepers and campsite owners usually love Dutch tourists. They’re polite, tidy, and often speak multiple languages. But they also come with quirks — like asking if they can plug in three devices at once in a room designed for one. Or requesting if peanut butter can be stored in the fridge. “They’re lovely,” one French grocer said, “but they do eat the strangest things for breakfast.”

Evening at the campsite is a peaceful, ritualistic affair. Barbecues sizzle. Laughter carries on the wind. Children play one last game of tag. And in the distance, someone strums a guitar. Families sit together under fairy lights, sipping tea or wine, retelling the stories of the day — the wrong turn, the odd-looking lizard, the time the tent collapsed during a freak windstorm. These are the moments that define the Dutch summer holiday — not just the destination, but the shared experience of chaos and joy.

As the weeks pass, a quiet sadness settles in. The return journey looms. Cars are repacked with slightly more sand and fewer snacks. Children write postcards home with crooked handwriting and hearts around their names. Parents double-check routes, passports, and peanut butter reserves. But in every family, there’s a sense of satisfaction. They’ve done it again. Another chapter written in the grand tradition of the Dutch summer holiday — full of heart, humor, heat, and hagelslag.