Volkswagen California camper review: Arctic ice-lake adventure

A cosmic ocean washing against the edge of our atmosphere: that is how I picture the aurora borealis. I have watched the northern lights at their most spectacular before, and it was properly, quietly gobsmacking – green, yellow and red waves bleeding across the night in watercolour-like layers, awe visible in people’s eyes. At the spring equinox, roughly 320 km north of the Arctic Circle and 19 km from Finland’s Russian border, I was camped on a frozen lake as far from artificial light as was practical. It felt like I might be in for another display. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

It is -20°C, I have no desire to put on sufficient layers to venture outside, and it would be pointless anyway: clouds have turned the sky an institutional grey, determined to deliver Valium views. We had hoped for the lights, naturally, but our real purpose is a rather unconventional examination of whether the new Volkswagen California camper is genuinely capable of covering huge distances and handling impromptu, semi-extreme camping – and whether this Ocean specification can credibly justify a price exceeding £80,000. So far, nobody has become hypothermic, which already feels like a success.

We had set off around 1,125 km earlier in Helsinki. An unexpectedly lengthy stop at a vast Finnish supermarket supplied our essential survival rations – chiefly Jaffa Jims and coffee. The Jims are Finland’s answer to Jaffa Cakes; foreign travel requires a little adventure – before we pressed on to Kempele, south of the larger town of Oulu, for a swift and unglamorous overnight stop.

Photography: John Wycherley

Volkswagen California camper: first impressions on the road

The Multivan-based California makes a solid initial case for itself. Its acceleration is best characterised as a mild shove from a pair of considerate hands, reaching 100 km/h from rest in around 10 seconds. The decimal place is lost amid the slightly gruff pairing of its 2.0-litre four-cylinder petrol engine and seven-speed DSG transmission. Gear changes are swift and, with just over 200 bhp and 320 Nm, the engine has enough muscle, but this is a substantial machine: 2.4 tonnes of weatherproof fabric and metal. We have also crammed rather more than its official payload of about 450 kg into it.

At motorway pace it settles down happily, particularly at Finland’s 100 km/h limit. Its steering, suspension and brakes all land on the comfortable side of adequate. It is mildly unwieldy as a car, but impressively brisk as a house, while remaining compact and manoeuvrable enough for a cramped underground car park or city traffic without an HGV licence. It covers long distances without complaint, if not with any particular urgency.

Converting it into somewhere to sleep is less effortless when you are exhausted, everyone else on the crew has the luxury of a hotel room, and you are bedding down at the far end of what is effectively a lorry stop. Nor does it offer a toilet or shower, both of which will matter later. Still, we are seeking sleep rather than spa-like comfort, so I fold the rear seats – the Cali has four seats in total – after reversing their head restraints, unfold the mattress section, rotate the two captain’s chairs, fit, insert and pull down the blackout blinds, then turn the auxiliary petrol heater up to maximum.

Then I wait for it to get warm. Much of that process involves open doors and assorted faffing, while temperatures remain well below zero and snow continues to fall. I leave the pop-up roof down: it lacks sufficient insulation, and I would probably freeze into some deeply unfortunate rictus. Low-roof sleeping it is, then. And it is... pleasant. Warm, certainly, though storage is limited and headroom is minimal. There are cupboards, yes, but not many. There is also nowhere to stow a portable toilet, so I resort to, er, bottles. The bed is genuinely decent for one person, though close for two, and the upper sleeping level becomes unusable when conditions are too cold.

The following morning brings much as expected. Late-night antics involving drunk people around the van have interrupted sleep, but it has generally been cosy, if clearly utilitarian. There are kilometres to cover, however, so we head onwards through a serious snowstorm that makes driving hard work. The California is imperious, mind, despite having front-wheel drive rather than optional all-wheel drive. Winter tyres help, obviously, yet it finds traction in fresh powder with little drama. Stopping distances double, accompanied by the fizzing, chattering enthusiasm of the ABS, but it accelerates and brakes with striking composure. That is exactly what you need: theatrical handling when you are trying to avoid a crash is seldom welcome.

There is more driving ahead – another roughly 560 km before reaching the northernmost point of our journey – although our progress is briefly halted when Finnish police block the petrol pump I am using and detain us. It seems obvious in retrospect, but we had failed to consider sufficiently how close we were to the Russian border, or the implications of flying drones nearby. We were filming the California along a particular stretch of road, legally and with insurance in place, but passers-by reported us.

What followed may have been history’s slowest police chase. We had already travelled onwards, so officers had to follow us for 40 km before catching us at a petrol station. And when a Finnish police officer gets slightly in your face, you listen – Finns have an exceptional command of stoic seriousness, the kind that suggests fines, deportation and cavity searches.

After some persuasion, we eventually established that we were not the world’s least prepared insurgents but simply hapless writers, and were allowed to leave. The officers turned out to be thoroughly pleasant, although one person’s final remark lingered with me: “Given the state of the world right now, and our neighbours, we had to check.” It prompts all kinds of thoughts about borders, closeness and caution – and about ensuring you do not send a drone skywards without properly considering your location.

From the Arctic Circle to UTAC Ivalo

With that crisis behind us, we continued, feeling safe and secure in the California as the scenery shifted from cheerfully Christmassy to genuinely Arctic. The Arctic Circle marker at Napapiiri is Santa central and tooth-achingly twee, while farther north the land becomes barer. Silver birch and Finnish pine remain plentiful, but growth is much slower here, the trees slightly stunted by wind and cold. Eventually, we arrive at our ultimate test location, ready to give the VW a proper workout.

It is a test destination in the most literal sense: UTAC Ivalo, the northernmost automotive test facility on Earth. UTAC operates several sites internationally. Its major UK venue is Millbrook in Bedfordshire, with other facilities in France, Morocco, Michigan, California and Trebur in Germany, plus offices in China.

15 minutes 21 seconds

UTAC Finland is different because it is the ice laboratory. Vehicle test centres serve countless purposes, but Ivalo has some decidedly strange installations for assessing electronics, tyres, systems and every other automotive component. Naturally, there are conventional forest, ice and snow routes, as well as enormous circular tracks – all sampled in the name of “testing” – but those are not even the best parts. The 1,000-metre-long, 100-metre-wide runway, prepared like a level ski slope, is entertaining even in a VW camper. The truly unusual facilities are indoors.

To preserve its cold-weather testing ability through Finnish summers, UTAC Ivalo operates a collection of internal test laboratories on an almost unbelievable scale. There are vast vehicle freezers, allowing cold starts at -50°C every day. A six-lane-wide, 410-metre snow drag strip feeds into an indoor snow-handling circuit. Another straight test route consists solely of transparent, slippery ice and is dedicated exclusively to studded-tyre testing. Every area is temperature-controlled, freezing cold and filled with snow collected from the site in winter.

It is intensely strange and completely brilliant: small cathedrals of testing, reminiscent of subterranean dwarf halls. The camper crosses them all, sliding about in distinctly un-camper-like fashion, while remaining safe, secure and, above all, warm. That is the point here: to take nature’s variables and reduce them, making tests repeatable, robotic and measurable. Anyone wondering how relentlessly and brutally new vehicles are developed need only visit UTAC Ivalo, which possesses every instrument required for automotive torture.

Camping on the ice lake in the California Ocean

That returns us to where we started. The frozen lake where I camp is tucked into a distant corner of Ivalo, clear of curious eyes and harsh lights. This time I create a proper camp, now more confident with the setup. The awning rolls out, while the camping table and chairs are released from the tailgate. The single-ring burner makes hot drinks and the pop-top rises. A tent can be threaded through the rail on the opposite side, and, with everything extended and open, it is easy to imagine spending summers in this thing with considerably more room.

That’s when I got it. A camper is really about freedom. The ability to just get in and go

This is not summer, though, so bedtime means lowering the roof and nestling in. No, the lights never appear, but we do find... peace. There is no noise beyond the faint tapping of the auxiliary heater, operated through a small touchpad inside the Cali. The rest of the crew departs for nearby hotels, leaving me alone for 14 hours in the middle of nowhere. That is when it clicks. A camper is fundamentally about freedom: being able simply to climb in and leave, set up in a beautiful corner, and wake to a fresh view each morning. Once you know the systems and load the Cali with what you truly need, it works – even when the weather is beyond anything you would normally expect.

There are improvements I would make. A portable toilet would be useful in cold climates, more storage would be appreciated, and several elements are fiddly. Yet it is crammed with functionality. Before long, the crew returns and thoughts turn to retracing our route. I have little idea how I smell, partly because I am wearing four layers of clothing, but chiefly because I suspect I have become desensitised. When Harry, the videographer, leans back at a 45° angle as I open the door, it rather supports the latter theory.

A test driver is performing languid doughnuts around the campsite in a BMW 5 Series, making it feel as though I have woken on a film set. Once packed up, I complete a few more slippery laps of the test tracks, declare the job done and prepare to head back to Helsinki. One thought keeps returning: this is an expensive VW Multivan, but it is cheap for a tiny home capable of handling almost anything. They say you can sleep in your car, but you cannot race your house. In the California, it seems, you can do both.