Reality check
Heads-in-hands we search everywhere. I was sure we had packed my husband’s clothes. And yet all he had with him for a week’s holiday at our soon-to-be forever home in the Pyrénées, were the very clothes he was standing in.
Only just yesterday I had read another article full of syrupy phrases such as “oh how we loved the Provence countryside, rippled with sunflowers, glistening after the morning rain”, “didn’t we enjoy the small bistro we stopped at with the aromas of bœuf bourguignon and shallots”, “the sunlight dappled on the trees as we sipped the wine that held honey notes and autumn leaves”. Grr.
Okay, yes. A small percentage of the time travelling down through France IS the romantic idyll that everyone searches for. The service stations are fantastic, the roads generally clear and smooth, the people friendly, the scenery breathtaking. It can be just like the chick-flicks I snuggle up to at the weekend.
However, really? Every single time? No. So this time I am digging my heels in, and being obstreprous. The real world does not go like clockwork or a Swiss clock. More like Swiss cheese sometimes.
The unravelling begins
Let me remind you, we have three rather tall teenagers, an excitable dog that in so many ways doesn’t travel well, three cats that have to be checked upon before being left at home, and of course us, my husband and I.
We love lists. We adore lists. That way theoretically nothing will go wrong. There are lists of what to take, lists of what to leave, lists about what jobs to do, lists about our travel plans. Well, with our menagerie, things obviously don’t magically happen by themselves.
I find that I now use throwaway phrases such as “We’re going on holiday for five days and it will be cold.” After all, it will be New Year’s Eve in the mountains. I have to assume that the children can take responsibility, or else the whole packing job could take days. Admittedly clothing choices are at times a little suspect, as I see one of my boys walking around in a t-shirt in 5°C, but independent thought is a big deal in our family. So I breathe and let it slide.
Packing
The cats are checked on, before we leave. Weights put against open doors, so they don’t accidentally shut themselves in, and the bin turned upside down so they don’t end up falling in. You have to think of everything.
Packing the car in the rain, (yes the rain), our dog suddenly feels that this is the best time to play up. As baggage gets put into the car, we have to sidestep her as she plays tug-of-war with anything that is loose or accessible. After chasing after her for my now poo-smeared fancy black trousers, I manage to stuff them into a bag to be washed later.
Children in, dog in and we are ready to go. That did seem rather too easy. Well obviously not. The oldest wanted to make a 30km detour to his University accommodation with all of his Christmas presents, including a massive exercise workbench. So with the dog squeezed into the boot, and the rest of us crammed like sardines into the car with bags on laps and on the floor, we were off.
The old banger
No, not in a Porsche. We have a 1999 Kangoo which is brilliant for going to the dump with garden rubbish. Comfort is not a word my children associate with the car, and with the window-seat passengers’ faces pressed against the windows and the middle passenger with their knees up by their chest, we started our six hour trip. An hour later we were able to relieve ourselves of the exercise bench and a few bags, releasing some of the mounting tension in the back. After nearly losing the dog in someone’s back garden in the centre of Toulouse, we made it back on the road. Of course we missed our slip road for the péripherique and had to do a ten-point turn in some tiny alley. Eventually though, we were on the road with the realisation that we had forgotton to pack any lunch.
Already travel-worn hubbie and I were past caring, and we refused to listen to the grumbles from the back seat as what should have been lunchtime came and went.
An hour later, and before there were any riots on the back seat, we took a quick detour off the motorway. Swallowing a scary bill of around fifty euros of “essential lunch items” to pacify the teens, (that didn’t include a quiet meal in a small bistro with a glass of wine), we were en-route again.
Success?
Finally reaching our destination late afternoon with the mist closing in, we congratulated ourselves on a journey which was frankly not half as bad as the last. At least this time the dog hadn’t vomited all over the boot.
Of course, once unpacked, we discovered that only the outside toilet worked, that one son had forgotton his revision folder, and the one bag which was left on the kitchen table 370km away was my husband’s clothes bag.
Happy Holidays!
MidLife Crisis In France
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