This August, I went on a road trip visiting my Cambridge friends around the country. I owed it all to the unlikely luck of knowing people who actually considered my squatting in their homes a treat (suckers), and someone who not only has a working driver’s license, but a car to use it on.

With Manchester as base, a Cam-blue Fiat 500 travelled from Skipton to Stroud; the team comprised of driver (Emily, the only one who could), navigator (Eve, who received their Orienteering badge twice in Scouts) and entertainment manager / PR consultant / events planner banished to the backseat (me, because I can text).

Setting off was tense for a few reasons. Firstly, we were hungover from an ale-filled drag night at a local pub (complete with a giant dildo smacked in peoples’ faces), and secondly, we had never driven together before. However, every fear melted away with the morning sun and the opening notes of ‘The Sound of Music’ as we started driving to Skipton. It was only as we crossed into the stretches of moorland and sumptuous dales that our resident Londonder started hacking up phlegm, a reaction that clearly meant one thing only: they were allergic to the North. We stayed with Millie, who greeted us with more warmth than three idiots in matching ‘Pussy Wagon’ t-shirts deserve. Our night in Skipton was a sober one, spent with chips and Macaroni cheese, watching old films.

“Emily and Eve were treated to a full camping extravaganza (I made them sleep in the garden)”

The next day, we drove to York to stay with our earring-obsessed friend Oscar and visit the Viking Museum, where we examined its star attractions: an old sock, the "realistic smell” of rotting rubbish and wild boar meat, and the "largest human poo" (which I found disappointingly small). After Oscar insisted on showing us his vast earring collection, we spent an intense night playing Monopoly, which quickly descended into absolute chaos; Oscar had conquered almost all the board, while everyone else banded together as our banker surreptitiously and illegally handed out £500 notes. We were home alone the next morning, free to throw a raucous party, but instead I accidentally drank copious amounts of potentially soured milk. Eve’s allergy to the North was getting more serious, so we scrambled down to Nottingham after snatching another packet of antihistamines.

After stopping to have lunch with our goateed pal Jacob in Sheffield, we came to my house ready to get sozzled. A tremendous night on the piss with my college husband, Alex, (including several pints, Spoons pitchers, and a random bottle of apple whiskey) later, I was doing my best to convince mum and dad that we weren’t completely smashed. Accommodation at mine was slightly boho – Emily and Eve were treated to a full camping extravaganza while I sadly slept alone in my room (I made them sleep in the garden).

“We decided to journey into the wastes of Oxford out of morbid curiosity”

Before I knew it we were on our way to Cambridge, where we’d stay with our friend Dom in Saffron Walden. Emily’s parking saw a bit of a blunder at Queen Anne Terrace – it took us a quarter of an hour to get back out – but this was soon overshadowed by my awful sense of direction, given I told our friend Ella to meet us at a park on the opposite side of town to where we actually were (in the pouring rain). Dom’s choice of music on the way back included the interesting medley of ‘7 years,' ‘A Whole New World,' and ‘Rasputin’, which was later complimented by watching his favourite film Mean Girls.

Penultimately, we ventured into enemy territory. Stroud was our final destination, but we decided to journey into the wastes of Oxford out of morbid curiosity. A strong stench pervaded our nostrils when we entered the city, and an old woman with mad eyes shrieked “beware, beware!” as we passed her. Lightning flashed, and we had barely made it out of the car before hordes with pitchforks shouting: “we should’ve won the boat race!” chased us back. Then I got frozen yoghurt with strawberries, mango and kiwi. In Stroud, Emily’s aunt was intimidatingly cool, and gave us some delicious fizz and food. We spent our last morning in her pottery studio making not much more than a mess, but left for Manchester feeling very arty and jealous of her, carrying three pots to commemorate the trip.

To conclude, I’d like to thank all our wonderful hosts. The chance to do a holiday where instead of finding yourself in a consumerist sort of way, you can delve into your friends’ lives and selves outside of the uni environment, imbued our trip with much more meaning than if we went interrailing around Europe, backpacking in Thailand, or off to America. It was their hospitality that made it all not only possible, but quite marvellous.