En France

Leaving Hubby to go into ferocious battle with a floor sander – it has been known to reduce him to tears, I packed my girls into our Espace for our 11pm crossing from Plymouth to Roscoff. The wind blew, the rain lashed down and even the Torpoint Ferry laboured across a swollen river. I started to pray.
“Do you think we should have taken those Sea Legs tablets earlier mum?” asked the 11 year old.
My stomach was already feeling dodgy but I put that down to anxiety. My house was in disarray – dust and books, ornaments and old carpet were littered everywhere in preparation of Hubby’s floor sanding. Also, we were not the only ones going on hols, my son too was packed up and ready to go to Rome with his granddad. I had left him with strict instructions of what to take, how to behave, what to eat and where to keep his money before he lost his patience with me, “Alice dear, you may consider me a deaf old codger but I think I am capable of looking after myself and a teenage boy for a few days”.
Now in front of me was a horrific cross channel crossing, driving in France and the happiness and safety of my daughters and. No wonder my insides were playing up.
Having joined the queue in Millbay Docks a tannoy system informed us that the ship had been delayed, a collective groan emanated and I thought we may as well go and have a coffee inside the terminal.
Unfortunately there was a man in there only too happy to share horror voyage stories with me.
“You going on this ship tonight love?” he asked. I nodded. He sucked his teeth.
“Crikey, hope you’re a good sailor. I’ve just received a phone call from my wife. She’s on the ferry you’re waiting for. In the sick bay actually. Quite an apt name as she said she’d never seen so much sick in her life. Everywhere it is. Swilling down the passageways”. By now the five year old was all ears.
“Aw mummy I don’t want to go” and she started to wail. This started the Red-Head off, who joined in the refrain with, “Me no go France, me see Daddy” over and over. The eleven year old was fishing in my handbag.
“What are you after?” I asked
“This” and she poured half a vial of Bach’s Rescue Remedy down her throat. Wind lashed and damp we returned nervous and edgy to the car. The ship finally docked and in fairness to the crew they must have been a dab hand with the Dettol because there was no evidence of any vomit on board. We bothered not with any on board amenities or entertainment. I just wanted these girls asleep before the ship sailed into a perfect storm. Lying down on my pillow, pleasant thoughts of George Clooney filled my mind and I drifted off to sleep. A few hours later we arrived in Roscoff to a sunny, if breezy day.
I consulted the map and set off for Perros Guirec and in just over an hour we pulled into the campsite. We weren’t to enter our accommodation until 3pm and I wondered what we would do with a car full of stuff but the Keycamp rep had already prepared our mobile home and within half an hour the kids were playing and I was playing little house in my new kitchen, putting everything in its place.
The biggest draw back of this holiday, apart from the weather and absence of spouse, was the position of the mobile home i.e. directly opposite the kids clubs. Rather frustratingly, Key Camp don’t start theirs until July although other holiday companies had and you try telling a two year old that she is not allowed to join the other little children because mummy didn’t book with Canvas Holidays. Every five minutes I had to remove my daughters from irresistible craft activities.
Fortuitously the British Chav fraternity were also on holiday and alive and well on our camp site. No sooner had I gone to bed than a commotion made me sit up and draw my curtain back. A gang of young teenagers swinging vodka bottles and fags were entering the kids’ club tent. Up I jumped, slippers on, fleece zipped and running across I undid the zip of the kids club tent – immediately seven teenagers scarpered, leaving me to find the courier. She was a lovely girl and had been very apologetic that my daughters couldn’t join in her fun and games. Having found her, we rushed back only to find that the yobs had trashed her club; little plastic chairs had been broken, paint spilt, glue splattered. We cleaned it up the best we could but from then on we had an unspoken agreement that my children would go and quietly join in.
A couple of days later, the weather peeing down as much as it was peeing me off, I found a local indoor pool and after a good few hours we emerged happy, wrinkly and hungry. As I removed my rucksack from the locker my mobile beeped. A text message from my son read: ‘Lost granddad for 5 hrs. Contact me ASAP’. On the verge of texting the Pope, I shakily rang my son first, “Don’t worry mum, just found him!”Apparently whilst waiting for an underground train to the Vatican, a sea of people had pushed my dad on the train, the doors had shut leaving my 14 year old boy on the platform. He had kept his wits and navigated himself back to the hotel, leaving my dad demented. Not as much as me, by the time I put the phone down the bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy was drained. Other than leaving my wallet in the mobile home and it being delivered to me on the return crossing – no other dramas ensued but oh my it’s good to be home..