F or years, travel was the reason I didn’t allow myself a dog. I love travelling, being unencumbered by children or husbands and able to jump on an overnight flight to a tango party in Buenos Aires or a wedding in Lagos, or accept a last-minute invitation on a superyacht. I’ve never actually done any of those but, theoretically, without a dog, I could have. Dress, Edeline Lee. Hat, Alexandra Harper Millinery London. Earrings, Astrid & Miyu. Necklace, Beatriz Palacios, Couverture & the Garbstore. Shoes, Pretty BallerinasThen, in June, I found myself driving to a town just outside Birmingham to pick up a small, furry terrier puppy called Dennis. I’d reached the point where I wanted a dog more than a last-minute invitation on a superyacht, which meant travel was over.Or was it? I’d already planned a trip to France and Spain in August, but perhaps Dennis could come with me? I could catch the train through Paris, head south to Provence and over the border to Catalonia. That still felt like travelling. If anything, it felt more like travelling. Intrepid. An adventure! Sophia and Dennis go wild in CataloniaAh, Eurostar doesn’t allow dogs.I could drive! Less eco, and I know from previous visits that the top of France is quite flat – un peu boring. But a road trip with Dennis would be a 2,000-mile adventure, which meant we could both go on holiday.It would also be cheaper than a dog-sitter, I presumed, the going rate in South London being around £50 a day. I just needed a car big enough to fit the clobber because travelling with a small terrier puppy isn’t enormously different to travelling with a baby. Accompanying Dennis would be: his crate, his blankets, his dog bed, 12 days’ worth of his posh dog food, his food bowl, his water bowl, his bag of toys, an assortment of chews – and 45 billion poo bags. Plus my suitcase and my boyfriend Paul’s suitcase.Enter the Jeep Wrangler, relaunched earlier this year: big, boxy, sturdy. It’s absurdly large for a puppy not much bigger than a gerbil, and I wasn’t sure how much off-roading we’d manage as we motored past the big champagne houses. But the boot fitted all our luggage, and was high enough for Dennis to see out from the back seat – perhaps stick his tongue out at passing French dogs in the manner of a bored teenager. Plus, we could take the roof off in sunnier climes.Off we set, Paul, Dennis and I, from London to Folkestone. A brief stop in the Eurotunnel pet reception for Dennis’s (wildly expensive) travel paperwork to be stamped and then we were on the train. Our first stop in France was a Relais & Châteaux hotel in Beaujolais country, and I was nervous. Would Dennis wee on the carpet? Would the other guests wrinkle their noses at the sound of a terrier puppy chewing his favourite pig toy by the pool? Château de Bagnols is a 13th-century pile with valet parking, an enormous drop from its drawbridge entrance (‘Dennis, stay away from the edge, please!’), and crisp linen tablecloths: at first sight not the place for a puppy. Posing beside the Jeep WranglerExcept, do you know how much the French love dogs? We Brits pride ourselves on this, they’re our best friends and so on, but the French almost outdo us. A waiter solemnly carried out a copper water bowl on a tray with our bellinis that night; a cushioned dog bed was placed in our room; Dennis could romp happily among the apple trees in the chateau grounds, where he enjoyed a holiday romance with a French girl, a nine-month-old golden retriever also staying there. This was so easy! Why do people make such a fuss about travelling with animals? Sophia and Dennis, passing through Provence en route to SpainAs we motored on, the driving became a bit less lovely. French roads in August are deranged, the service stations like battle zones. ‘You go in, grab a sandwich, I’ll give him lunch then we swap,’ I’d instruct Paul every time we pulled in. Which we did often, first to let Dennis pee on whatever scrubby patch of yellow grass we could find, and second to refuel the Jeep. It was comfortable at 80mph on the A8 towards Nice, but thirstier than a Tour de France cyclist wearing the maillot jaune. Dennis was treated royally at the Château de BagnolsProvence was magnifique: two nights staying with friends; the hot tang of lavender and pine in our nostrils – until we managed to lock the car keys inside the Jeep. Modern cars have various irritating functions, including an auto-lock ironically designed for safety reasons, which secures the doors after 60 seconds if they’re closed. Even if the key is inside. Dennis, fortunately, was outside, but his posh dog food broiled in 40-degree temperatures in the boot until Christophe, a local locksmith, came out to let us in again with a clothes hanger. A 20-minute job for £240. ‘Eet ees a Sunday,’ shrugged Christophe. ‘Aren’t road trips fun?’ I said gaily to Paul as we clambered back into the Jeep and set off for Spain.We stayed at my father and stepmother’s new house outside Girona. A new house means new sofas, rugs, beds and knick-knacks – like beautiful hand-painted eggs on a coffee table, which Dennis immediately helped himself to and cracked with his puppy teeth; it also meant a swimming pool without a fence, which I worried he might drown in.Christ, is a holiday with a puppy actually a holiday at all? Shirt, Anna Mason. Scarf, Aspinal of London. Sunglasses, DiorOn the upside, Dennis came to the beach for the first time, where he amused himself (if not the nearby diners) by digging a large hole in which to bury his bone. I took him to every restaurant we visited, the Spaniards apparently being almost as keen on dogs as the French, where he patiently lay under every table as Paul and I soldiered through the rosado. We took the roof off the car and meandered past fields of sunflowers, while Dennis scampered down dusty tracks in front of us – two sleep-deprived, anxious new parents holding hands, easing into holiday mode.Just as we’d turned a different colour, it was time to get back into the car again for the return trip. ‘I’m sorry, puppy,’ I said guiltily, as I lifted Dennis into the back of the Jeep for another seven hours on the road, wishing he could understand that this odyssey was a treat. One last stop at the Abbaye des Vaux de Cernay, not far from Paris, then homeWe broke the journey twice on the way back up, taking a different route and stopping first just outside Limoges, then on to a ravishingly romantic abbey outside Paris. At least it would have been ravishingly romantic if Dennis hadn’t woken me at 5am having peed on the carpet. I whisked him outside, mumbling sleepy apologies to Paul. The Abbaye des Vaux de Cernay, it’s called, and it was opened as a luxury hotel last year, which means Le Chameau wellies in the hallway and Le Chameau dog bowls in our bedroom. Also a little sign to hang on our door, warning staff of le chien. Sophia’s journeyThe Abbaye had wonderful grounds with stone ruins where Dennis and I walked at dusk and came across a roe deer. I could almost see the Cistercian monks gliding about in their habits, if not dipping in the outdoor pool or doing aerial yoga in the spa.The driving had been exhausting; so had the worrying. Would Dennis be too hot? Would he drown in the pool? ‘Can dogs get bitten by mosquitoes’ was one of my many, many dog-related googles. (Yes). Would he get a sandfly bite? (No.) What if he ate one of the giant slugs we saw in Spain? Downtime at the home of friends in ProvenceI also had to get up at 6am every morning and whisk him outside in case he pooped on the floor. On one occasion I forgot a poo bag and found myself asking the hotel reception where the bathrooms were, so I could return to the scene of the crime and pick up Dennis’s little offering with a tissue. This is what it came to that morning: me, in a hotel dressing gown, surreptitiously scanning the lawn with a fistful of loo roll.After our final breakfast in the Monks Refectory the next morning (could I steal a boiled egg in a napkin for Dennis? I wimped out), we reached the Eurotunnel in Calais barely rested. The total cost for Dennis, including the Eurotunnel pet supplement, the hotel supplements and his travel paperwork, came to just over £500; the gargantuan petrol fee was around £800 (and don’t forget the fee for Christophe the locksmith). A dog-sitter and flights would have been cheaper. Possibly easier.But it wouldn’t have been as much of an adventure. More simply, I would have missed him. On our last evening, as I lay on the grass outside the abbey with my book, Paul emerged from the hotel with Dennis and they ran towards me. ‘A year ago, I didn’t have either of you,’ I thought, ‘and now I have both.’I don’t mean to sound smug because I know how quickly life can change – for good or bad. But right then, listening to the crickets, it was pretty magical. I can still travel, it turns out, it’s just slightly different (do remember the poo bags).Picture director: Stephanie Belingard. Styling: Rachel Davis. Hair: Julie Read at Carol Hayes using Color Wow. Make-up: Carol Morley at Carol Hayes using Nars.