What Was Always in the Car

Watson basically had a bedroom in the BMW

I folded the back seats down and put an orthopaedic mattress across the back so Watson had somewhere comfortable to sleep.

He’d start a drive sitting up front with me, eventually decide he’d had enough and migrate backwards for a nap. When he woke up, his head would appear between the seats and I’d get a very deliberate nudge — almost like being head-butted by a small goat — when he decided it was time for a stretch or toilet stop.

For sun protection, I used to wedge a sarong across the window while he slept.

It worked.

Would I do that again? No. I’d buy proper fitted rear-window sunshades before leaving home. That’s genuinely one of the few things I wish I’d bought earlier.

Water. So much water.

Australian road trips can mean long stretches between reliable stops, particularly once you’re outside major towns.

I’d buy four-litre bottles of water and keep them in the esky in the back, with another supply accessible from the front. Watson’s water was always fresh and cold.

One of the most useful things I eventually bought was a portable dog water bottle with an attached drinking cup. I could dispense water into the top for him and return unused water to the bottle instead of tipping it through the car.

This was especially useful because Watson’s drinking technique was roughly 50% mouth, 50% surrounding environment.

There was always a towel nearby.

The glovebox was Watson’s snack cupboard

I kept his treats in the glovebox and a large resealable bag of kibble in the back.

I actually preferred the original kibble bag to transferring everything into rigid containers. It sealed the smell surprisingly well and could be manoeuvred under and around luggage in ways a giant piece of Tupperware couldn’t.

At night, when we arrived somewhere unfamiliar, Watson would get one of his favourite chews while he settled in.

And then there was our shared road-trip vice: beef jerky.

I sacrificed chilli jerky for original so Watson could have a little too.

That is love.

We didn’t just stop for petrol

About every four hours, I’d look for somewhere Watson could properly move.

Somehow we always seemed to find a big green oval, park or beach. Out came the tennis ball and thrower and he’d run. If we found a beach, we’d walk for miles.

Ceduna gave us an almost empty beach with unbelievably clear water. We walked the cliffs overlooking the Great Australian Bight. Up north, I became increasingly convinced every body of water contained something capable of eating Watson, while Watson remained convinced every creek, mud hole and questionable puddle had been created specifically for him.

In Cairns, the crocodile anxiety won. The lead stayed on.

Everything that came out of the car at the beach is in Watson’s Beach Kit.

The least glamorous thing permanently in the car

Poo bags.

And not just any poo bags.

I became weirdly devoted to DOG by Dr Lisa’s vanilla-scented bags because they were thick, large enough for a big dog, had handles I could actually tie and didn’t leave me walking around wondering whether the bag was about to betray me.

They even survived a first date.

Watson did what dogs do. I picked it up, tied the bag and continued walking while my date looked mildly horrified that I hadn’t simply left it behind.

There was no second date.

If somebody gets the ick because I clean up after my dog, I’m fairly comfortable with that filtering process.

Air-conditioning solved one problem and created another

Driving through Australian heat meant the air-conditioning could be blasting for hours.

It kept Watson cool, but I noticed his nose becoming dry. His paws could also become dry after repeated stops on hot, harsh ground.

At night, once we’d reached our accommodation and Watson was tired enough not to immediately lick everything off, I’d put DOG balm on his nose and paws and let it soak in while he slept.

It became one of those tiny products that earned a permanent place in the travelling kit.

Beach dog + car = towel

Watson loved water.

Ocean, creek, mud — quality control was not his department.

His DOG towel wrapped around him rather than requiring me to wrestle a giant loose towel around a wet, excited, hairy dog. It helped dry him before he climbed back into the car and stopped quite so much of the ocean travelling with us.

He also looked extremely pleased with himself strutting around in it, which obviously mattered.

I’d hose or rinse him when possible, use dog wipes regularly, and give him a brush every day.

The brushing was non-negotiable.

Watson may genuinely have been one of the hairiest dogs ever manufactured.

Travelling in Australian heat

Our favourite trick was leaving ridiculously early.

Often we’d be on the road around 3am, drive through the coolest part of the morning, and stop around sunrise for Watson to run while the temperature was still comfortable.

If the ground was hot at a stop, I’d use water to cool the immediate area where Watson needed to step. Leather seats also became hot quickly, so towels were useful throughout the car.

Finding dog-friendly accommodation across Australia

I mapped our route months in advance and worked out where Watson could legally stay.

Some properties charged extra. Some required deposits. Some were lovely.

Some were… memorable.

One outback stop had a broken door lock, a single bed and the general ambience of the opening ten minutes of an Australian crime documentary.

Watson and I squeezed into the bed together.

At another place, I heard someone repeatedly trying a code on my digital door lock before eventually banging on the door. Neither Watson nor I slept particularly well, and we were back on the road at 4am.

There were beautiful places too — ocean views, proper hotels and a fantastic caravan setup in Byron.

But travelling alone through remote Australia taught me to book dog-friendly accommodation before I needed it, particularly in places where there might only be one or two options.

And yes, having a giant black dog beside me made me feel enormously safer.

Even though I maintain that technically I was Watson’s security detail.

Don’t just find the petrol station. Check when it closes.

One thing permanently lived in the back of the BMW that had nothing specifically to do with Watson: 10 litres of emergency fuel.

Across thousands of kilometres, I only needed it once.

I’d planned the distance between towns, but hadn’t anticipated something much simpler: in smaller Australian towns, the petrol station might not still be open when you arrive.

One night that spare fuel got us far enough to reach the last service station that was still open.

Without it, Watson and I would have been sleeping in the BMW at a closed petrol station until morning — Watson probably quite happily on his orthopaedic mattress, while I contemplated the perfectly nice dog-friendly hotel room I’d already paid for somewhere further down the road.

It taught me that when you’re travelling through regional and remote Australia, don’t just map where the fuel stops are. Check when they’re open.

And don’t assume the next town means the next available tank of fuel.