An unsettling start
Unpredictable weather, children and detours make for an interesting arrival on the Continent. By Maxine Jones
The rain pours on the drive to Rosslare. "Aren't you glad you're leaving all this behind?" I say irritatingly to Sam, who is looking forward to the boat trip, but not the time away. At Ferns the three boys pose in the graveyard, Colm in the middle, reaching up to put an arm round each brother's neck. The tombstones and the sky are varying shades of grey, the yew trees black-green and the grass olive-green. The boys flash bright smiles of trust and anticipation.
A storm buffs the boat and people are being sick on every staircase, blocking my way. I cannot pass by somebody who is being sick. While other people offer help, I look for an alternative path. Sam and Colm and I stay in the cabin, silently willing ourselves to feel better. Liam is leaping round the ship, oblivious of the swaying and the sickness. He has met a school friend, Owen, and they are having the time of their lives playing the slot machines and tormenting the clown, then watching two movies in a row. Owen's family has also retired to feel ill in private, leaving the pair of ten-year-olds to enjoy their castaway freedom.
It's cold in Roscoff the next morning, though the sun is shining. The site, booked months in advance, is uninviting, the waterslides closed. The children shiver in the pool. We play mini golf instead – paying €12 for the doubtful privilege. There is no beach nearby, only mudflats. When we are greeted by pouring rain the next morning. I suggest we move south.
"Fine," says the manageress, "but you'll have to pay for the time you booked."
We'd booked for four nights at a hefty rate. I protest that the camp is three quarters empty and we have not lost her any bookings. She is intransigent. I feel coldness flood my veins and I calmly tell her that I am writing reports on campsites for an English magazine. She smiles and refunds my money. I feel a little shaky but triumphant as the barrier lifts and we drive out. A family from Cork, booked here for a fortnight, are glumly handing over money for mini golf.
Heading south – we were aiming for Lorient – proved easy until the road ended in a red and white barrier saying 'route barree'. We tried another route, also route barree. This happened five times. Gendarmes were posted at junctions to advise on alternative routes.
We were low on diesel and, being Sunday, all the garages we passed were closed. Eventually I found one that was open. The garage owner told me that the route the gendarme had suggested was chock-a-block owing to a techno fair. I wondered what one of those was and what the attraction could be. A cycle race and a local festival had caused the other diversions, he said. He suggested we head west, to Concarneau.
So, after doubling back on ourselves several times and taking most of the day to travel from the north to the south coast of Brittany, a distance of not much more than 60 miles, we pulled into the car park at the port of Concarneau. We sat outside a café in the late afternoon sunlight admiring the granite ramparts and the yachts in the harbour.
"This is the life," I ventured to myself, blocking out the road blocks. The scenery we'd passed through had been green and empty, the forest and streams round Huelgoat were fairy-tale-like. Along the way, once I'd pointed out the pronunciation, the children were amused by the signs saying Quimper and Vannes.
It was still early in the season and the boys had a quarter of the campsite to themselves. We picked our neighbourless spot near the football pitch and a short hyacinth-lined walk from the shower block. Maybe now the idyll would begin, though it still didn't seem warm enough to use the pool. That evening I set up the laptop using an extension cord and the boys watched Shrek II sitting outside the van.
We found the nearest beach and parked the van overlooking the sea. There's never any need to worry you've left something behind when, on even the shortest trip, you have all your belongings with you. Returning to base is confusing, though. Coming back to the camp site we found ourselves looking out for our van, only to realise we were in it.
As the boys ran around the beach and ventured into the sea, I sat on a rock and became engrossed in watching two young English couples. One couple had a new baby. While the childless couple rubbed oil on each other and raced to the water, the other pair juggled buggy, parasol, bottles and blankets. They passed the baby between them and sneaked glances at their friends in the sea.
Colm ran over saying he needed to go to the toilet. I gave him the keys to the van so he could use the Portapotti. No need to go looking for toilets. Later we made burgers and drank cold Orangina from the fridge. No need to go looking for a café. Everything seemed to be working out fine. And for Sam, who'd gone further into the sea than he'd planned, there was an instant change of clothing.
Sam has sulky patches but his face has lit up more often than I remember in Dublin recently. And there are arguments. I was going to keep a record one day but gave up at around midday. Up until then there had been an argument between Liam and Colm about who would get the last of the Frosties. Then between Sam and Liam about who would read the Harry Potter book. Then between me and Sam about him never washing. Then between Colm and Liam about who would put the eggs into the egg boxes at the Casino supermarket.
The awning – a huge tunnel tent affair which clips onto the side of the van – has remained in its storage space under the double seat. Though no longer than an estate car, the van provides enough sleeping space for the four of us. Liam sleeps across the driver and passenger seat, bridged by the table top and covered with a makeshift mattress.
By hanging a blanket down from the roof, he can partition himself off and have his own "room". Sam is "upstairs". He lacks headroom but this doesn't seem to bother him. He can look down on all of us, has side windows through which to view the world, and a skylight to the stars.