A Pair of Idiots Abroad

When our children were small and we had very little spare money we used to pack the rusty old Sierra to the roof, squash the children in the back like sardines, between coolboxes, sleeping bags and frying pans, and set off for the long drive to the French Vendee. 

Sadly, this was never the pleasant, exciting journey I'd envisaged (the husband was always the realist, not to say pessimist).   As we set off in the middle of the night from Onslow Road and onto St Walburgas the arguments would begin.  These could be between any combination of passengers and driver, although mainly between three tired, over excited children or two exhausted, stressed adults. 

There were the usual, 'Are we nearly there yet?', 'What's to eat?' and, 'He/she is annoying/touching/speaking to me.'  These from the back, where Laurey always got to sit with her legs crushed by the coolbox and Dan was squashed in the middle with his knees up to his chin due to the hump in the floor.  Joe, meanwhile would be flicking Dan's ear or something equally annoying. In the front there would be the hissed disagreements about directions (the handy Satnav was yet to be invented, although, when it was, the husband, of course, knew better); or one of us, usually the husband, would explode about the kids' behaviour and the other (usually me) would surreptitiously slide a hand around behind the seat to find a leg to quietly grab or slap (difficult with the coolbox and the hump and the frying pan, despite plenty of practice), whilst calmly muttering, 'They're only kids, they're excited...'

Most years we were the idiots abroad and sadly have plenty of evidence to back that up.  One year we were the idiots before we'd even got out of Blackpool, although we didn't know it until we returned two weeks later.  A neighbour told us, with great pleasure, that we'd driven off and left the front door wide open.  Of course, the husband blamed me and I blamed him, but the truth was our brains had been frazzled by the planning, the packing and the children. 

As idiots abroad, we were the best.  Although I'd done A level French and my mastery of the language wasn't bad I resented being the only one out of at least nine of us (we went with another family, sometimes two) to do all the talking - all the asking about directions, the ordering of food, the bartering in markets, the buying of goods) and eventually persuaded the husband to at least have a go. 

I soon realised this was a big mistake. 

His first job was to get the bread. With dismay I heard him asking confidently in French (with a broad Accrington accent) for a dozen large baguettes. I leapt across the shop and quickly amended the order to the two that we needed. 

Then there was the petrol station where he greeted the attendant with a 'merci' and drove off with a 'bonjour' as I slid down in my seat and stared fixedly in the opposite direction. 

But by far the most idiotic and dangerous thing we were both responsible for was the day that we adults were so exhausted we allowed five children, aged from five to ten, to go off fishing. On their own. Unbelievable in this day and age. Anyway, off they went on their bikes, with a couple of fishing rods between them, while we settled down outside the tent, with a few luke warm bottles of beer (camping fridges were in their infancy and more likely to heat things up than keep them cool).  In due course, miraculously, all five children returned, albeit wet and rather subdued. There was not a fishing rod in sight and Joe, the eldest, was pushing his bike, rather than riding it. Laurey disappeared into the tent and lay on the bed, telling us in passing that she didn't feel too well.  

The Motley Crew

The adults, after rather half heartedly asking the children if they'd had a good time (there were subdued nods) carried on laughing, chatting and drinking the warm beer. 

Reading this now, it seems the whole arrangement was the height of irresponsibility. In our defence, thirty years ago, kids were given a lot more freedom than they would be today, but even by those standards we had acted like idiots. 

The full story didn't emerge till years later.  Apparently, all had started well. The little convoy had wound its way to the beach, Joe as the eldest, leading the way, Ben, the youngest bringing up the rear, pedalling as fast as his little legs would take him.  Then, at a bend in the dirt track, Joe's fishing rod which had been balanced precariously on his handlebars, somehow became entangled in the spokes of his front wheel and he was catapulted head first onto the ground, simultaneously grazing his face and knees and giving his wheel a nasty twist. 

Despite being somewhat shell shocked the little group gathered round the injured party, made sure he was still alive and carried on to the beach.  

And this was where things got seriously scary.  After a short while fishing with one shared rod between them and not a fish caught, Joe decided (probably in a show of bravado) that he would swim across the bay.  Against advice from some of the others, mainly his sister, he set off from the rocks and headed for the other side.  Halfway across he realised, with mounting panic, that it was further than he thought. Laurey, by this time, was crying hysterically, quite sure that she would be going home without one of her brothers.  Spotting a boat bobbing about a little way out, she managed to get the fisherman's attention and waved wildly towards Joe, who was still ploughing through the water in growing desperation.  

Of course there was happy ending. Joe was rescued, he managed to ride his bike in a somewhat wobbly fashion most of the way back to the campsite, followed by the motley crew, and if I remember rightly a rather drunken barbecue ensued. Laurey eventually emerged from the tent, still looking pale, and assured us she would feel better in the morning. 

I'd like to tell you that the holiday ran smoothly from then on, but two of the bikes were stolen the following day - by another idiot abroad.  But that's another story....

No time for a poem this week unless I add one tomorrow.

Thanks for reading     Jill

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Creatures of the Deep (and apologies for going a little off topic)

When I was a child there was a programme on TV called The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau. Initially, I remember watching it, as much for Cousteau's sexy French accent as for anything to do with the undersea world, but as time went on I became fascinated by the creatures who led these secret slow motion lives, hiding, stalking and preying on each other in this strange, silent, watery world.

In fact I became so fascinated that I wonder if watching Jacques and his adventures was the catalyst for the fear of water I began to develop at about that time.

It started with the Brownie Swimming Gala, an annual event and one that I'd somehow managed to avoid in previous years, probably due to the fact that I was smaller than all the other Brownies and able to duck down and hide when volunteers were called for. It wasn't that I was actually afraid of water, more that I was afraid of the effects of that water if it went up my nose.  The last time I'd gone underwater without holding my nose (in fact, the last time in my life I EVER did this) I'd felt as though my head was going to explode. I'm sure it was something to do with my sinuses but the pain was so intense I was nearly physically sick when I dragged myself up out of the water. 

So, volunteering for the Brownie Swimming Gala was not on my list of 'must do' activities. What I hadn't reckoned on was Brown Owl's persistence. Was there a badge for this, I wonder? For each excuse I managed to muster Brown Owl had the answer, until eventually I was so worn down that I heard myself agreeing to take part. I went home, told my mum and dad, who did that typical parent thing of trying to persuade me that not only would it be OK but it would be a great opportunity - and then, when I continued to moan, 'whether you want to do it or not, you're committed now, so you're doing it.'  I cried for a week, then, reluctantly packed up my swimsuit and hat and headed to the Gala. 

My race was announced, I lined up with my fellow swimmers, the whistle was blown and either side of me bodies leaned forward, stretched out their arms and dived into the pool.  I held my nose, walked to the edge and jumped in. When I surfaced the divers were crawling energetically through the water - and practically at the finish line.  As the only stroke I had mastered (and I use the word loosely) was breast stroke, I set off, head down, in somewhat of a panic.  Through my skin tight swimming cap I registered the clapping and cheering as the first swimmer touched the edge.  Determinedly I ploughed on as, one by one, the other swimmers swung themselves out of the pool, to the sound of applause, and stood waiting by the side. Those final few minutes were the longest of my life. Like the loser I was I finally reached the edge and scrambled out.  There were a few sympathetic staccato claps. My shame and embarrassment knew no bounds.

This was the first of many mishaps with water: mishaps that included being violently seasick in charge of a bicycle on a rocking ferry in the middle of the Aegian Sea; being similarly ill in a tiny shared cabin between Hull and Zeebrugge; and worst of all, the near drowning of a friend of my son's as the Blackpool sea crept around the back of the four year olds and left them literally high and dry on an ever diminishing island on the beach.  By the time I realised what was happening they were too far away to hear me shouting and I ran, as if in a nightmare towards the deepening water.  Eventually, they turn round, realised the danger and, panicking, waded their way back, up to their necks in swirling sea.  As we had only recently moved to the area and hardly knew Dan's friend or his family I was desperate to play the event down.  I rushed the boys back to our house and changed them both into dry clothes, laughing with false jollity at what had occurred.  On the way to return the friend to his mother I continued to minimise the danger they had been in.  The boys trailed behind me in an assortment of mismatching clothes, and just as we reached the gate Dan piped up in a loud voice, "Are you going to tell Craig's mummy he nearly drowned?"

I'm pleased to report that nearly thirty years later the two little boys and their friendship had survived so well that the story was mentioned at both their weddings - where they were each Best Man for the other.  For once a happy ending to a deep water tale...

I think I might have had a similar expression as I swam my heart out in the Brownie Gala

I'm more than happy to stare at the sea, and even tiptoe along the water's edge - just don't expect me to venture in any further.  Sea Fever

John Masefield (from Salt-Water Ballads, 1902)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down go to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. Thanks for reading,   Jill

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