Three Weeks in Lanzarote A Van Life Retreat for Thesis Writing and Ocean Runs
Some trips are planned around seeing everything. This one is planned around doing less, with more intention.
In a little while, I’ll be going to Lanzarote, Spain, for three weeks. I’ll rent a van, bring my thesis work with me, and make the island my temporary base. The rough plan is simple: write, run by the ocean, eat well, sleep close to the elements, and let the days become quiet enough to hear myself think.
It is not a holiday in the usual sense. I am not going to escape the work. I am going to meet it somewhere different, somewhere shaped by volcanic rock, wind, sea air, and long stretches of open space.
Why Lanzarote feels like the right place to write
There is something appealing about choosing an island for a focused season of work. Lanzarote is not soft in the obvious way. It is dry, exposed, and elemental. The landscape looks pared back, as if everything unnecessary has been stripped away.
That feels right for thesis writing.
A thesis can become a noisy thing. There are notes, drafts, doubts, advisor comments, half-formed arguments, and the constant sense that the work should be further along than it is. I want a setting that makes the task feel less like a maze and more like a daily practice.
For three weeks, the goal is not to finish everything in a dramatic burst. The goal is to build rhythm.
Wake up. Make coffee. Read a section. Write a paragraph. Go for a run. Come back tired in the best way. Edit one page. Make dinner. Watch the light change.
That kind of repetition sounds plain, but it is exactly what I want. A narrow routine can be freeing when the work is deep enough to need space.
The van is part shelter and part boundary
Renting a van changes the shape of the trip. It makes the days more flexible, but also more contained. I will have what I bring, and not much else. That matters.
A van creates a small physical boundary around the work. There is no full apartment to settle into, no extra rooms to fill, no easy slide into comfort that turns into distraction. Everything has a place because it has to.
I imagine the van becoming a moving study, kitchen, changing room, and rest space. Not glamorous. Useful. A place to return to after runs, a place to read when the wind is high, a place to sleep after a day that actually feels lived.
There is a practical side too. Van life asks for a different kind of attention:
Where to park respectfully and legally
How much water is left
What food will survive the day
Where to charge devices
When to stop moving and stay put
Those questions might sound like chores, but I think they will help. They make the day concrete. They pull attention back into the body and the immediate world.
A thesis routine that leaves room to breathe
I know myself well enough to avoid over-planning the writing. If I arrive with a perfect schedule, I will probably spend more energy defending it than doing the work.
Instead, I want a loose structure that can survive real life.
The morning will be for the hardest thinking. That might mean drafting, rewriting an argument, or reading something dense while my mind is still clear. I want to give those hours to the thesis before the day fills with logistics.
Afternoons can hold lighter work. Editing references. Re-reading notes. Sorting comments. Moving pieces around. Tasks that still count, but do not require the same level of bravery as a blank page.
Evenings can be for recovery. A simple meal. A walk. Stretching. Maybe a few notes about what worked and what needs attention the next day.
The point is not to become perfectly productive. The point is to create fewer excuses. Three weeks is long enough to make progress, but short enough to stay awake to the gift of it.
I want to come home with more than pages. I want to come home with proof that I can work steadily without squeezing all softness out of life.
Running by the ocean as a reset
Running will be part of the trip, not as training for anything specific, but as a way to stay grounded.
There is a particular clarity that comes from running near water. The body has something to do. The mind loosens its grip. Problems that seemed impossible at a laptop sometimes become simpler after a few kilometres of steady movement.
I do not need every run to be long or dramatic. Some days might be short and slow. Some days the wind might decide the pace. Some days I might turn around earlier than planned and still count it as enough.
The ocean makes running feel less like another task and more like a return. I like the idea of finishing a writing block, closing the laptop, tying my shoes, and moving along the coast with no real objective beyond staying present.
Simply existing is part of the plan
The phrase “simply exist” can sound vague, but I know exactly what I mean by it.
I mean sitting outside without reaching for a distraction right away. I mean making coffee slowly. I mean noticing the colour of the rock, the sound of the wind against the van, the way salt dries on skin after a run. I mean letting a day be good even if it is not impressive.
Travel can easily become performance, even when no one is watching. There is pressure to make the most of it, to see the best places, to collect proof that the trip mattered. I am trying to resist that.
For this trip to matter, it does not need to be full. It needs to be honest.
Some days I might barely move. Some days I might write badly. Some days I might feel lonely or restless or unsure why I thought taking my thesis to an island was a good idea. That is allowed too. A retreat is still real life. It just gives real life a different frame.
What I hope the three weeks will give me
I hope Lanzarote gives me focus, but not the brittle kind. I hope it gives me a steadier relationship with my work. I hope the van gives me enough shelter and enough discomfort to keep me awake. I hope the ocean runs clear out the mental static that builds up during long writing days.
Mostly, I hope the trip reminds me that a life can hold effort and ease at the same time.
I do not expect the island to solve the thesis for me. I still have to sit down and do the work. I still have to tolerate uncertainty, revise weak sentences, and keep going when the argument refuses to behave.
But I am curious about what might happen when the conditions are simpler. A van. A laptop. Shoes by the door. The Atlantic nearby. Three weeks of showing up.
That feels like enough to begin.
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