La Beule is a long established seaside resort on the Atlantic coast of France. It has an incredibly long beach (9 km somebody told me – I took their word for it) lined with multi-storey apartment blocks and hotels with the odd casino thrown in for good measure. Like most anything that sits on the edge of the Atlantic for any length of time, these buildings looked shabby and in need of maintenance.

It reminded me of the North Wales seaside towns of my youth – perhaps a little more affluent. What reminded me of North Wales even more was the weather. It was raining, billowing black clouds rolling in behind massive breakers. The rain didn’t stop the kite surfers though, they were leaping about in the surf with abandon, carried on massive jumps by the gale force winds.

Between squalls we perched on a bench on the seafront sharing out the bounty we’d picked up a little earlier at the supermarket. Bread, pâté, cheese, salami and sundry other things the French are rightly famous for. It was wonderful fare, I have to say, and the children were in good spirits despite the inclement weather.

It had been raining since we’d arrived in France two days earlier, and after a couple of soggy nights camping we were waiting to meet my wife’s sister and her family. They live in Tours, about two and a half hours drive inland up the Loire valley, and have a holiday home in La Beule. It doesn’t take long for camping in the rain to dampen your spirits, and I for one was looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed again.

Waiting isn’t something the children are fond of at the best of times. In the rain it can be pure torture, and in the rain abroad after a long drive and two nights of camping it’s even worse. I finally relented and put a DVD on the laptop for them. For a while peace reigned while we suffered through the world’s worst ever animated version of Cinderella. It had come free with one of the Sunday papers, and I’d thrown it in the bag “for emergency use only”. This was an emergency.
The following day dawned bright and blustery. It was a massive improvement on the day before, and after some good French food, ample quantities of wine and a good night’s sleep in a real bed, was reflected by my mood. The girls were all happy too, which helps, and were playing with their French cousins.

It’s amazing how children can find ways to communicate that transcend language. As adults we skirt nervously around the issue – too afraid of making fools of ourselves to order a coffee or ask directions. Children just get on with it and communicate – they don’t understand the words, but there seems to be a built in ability to accept and comprehend that we lose as we grow up.

I’m hopeless at it. French I mean. Probably because I have my wife to fall back on. In France, and later in the trip when we reach Spain, I’ll definitely be letting her do all the talking. She’s better at it than me, even in English – she has more practice – and when it comes to other languages she wins hands down.

I guess it’s lazy – but then, I’m on holiday. At least that’s what I keep telling myself as I sit behind the wheel peering doggedly through the windscreen as the wipers struggle to shift the volume of water that’s pelting it. In the back the kids are starting to fight again. Not to worry, it’s almost time to find another camp site. Then we get to put the tent up in the pouring rain again. Yippee!

Technorati Tags: Travel, parenting, children, France, column

I could have sworn the light was green.

Whether it was the way the sunlight was glinting off the traffic-lights, or just an odd reflection on the lens of my sunglasses, I took off while the light was still red. The garda on the motorbike who was approaching from the other direction was not amused.

I pulled the car over and got out. Naturally I was very apologetic for my error. I explained that I’d been convinced the green arrow was illuminated, and that it was one of those freakish tricks of the light that happen occasionally.
 
Stony faced, the garda asked to see my license. As I fished around in the glove compartment for it I saw him give our car the once over. It was packed to the rafters with stuff. Three little faces peered out from among our mountain of belongings, wondering what the Garda was talking to their Daddy about.

We were passing through Waterford, on the way to Rosslare to catch the ferry to Cherbourg on the first leg of our camping trip to France and Spain. This wasn’t a particularly auspicious start, and we were already behind schedule.
The garda scanned my license with a critical eye. It still had our old Douglas address on it. We moved more than four years ago now, but somehow changing the address on your license is one of those things you just never get around to doing. That worked in my favour now.

The garda must have been stationed in Douglas at some point, or had some other Douglas connections, because he told me to watch the lights a bit more closely in future, and said that as I lived in Douglas I could go on my way. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Crisis averted, we set off again, and made the ferry terminal with minutes to spare. After a short wait we rolled aboard. Travelling by ferry was nothing new to the girls – we do it relatively frequently when we visit my family in Wales. What was different about this time was that we’d be sleeping on board.

When we got to to our cabin I was pleasantly surprised. I’d been expecting a cramped, uncomfortable box. Instead there were four reasonably sized bunks, with more than enough space for all of us to move around comfortably. There was a functional en-suite with toilet, washbasin and shower, and, best of all, there was a window letting in plenty of light. The décor was a bit dated, but it was spotlessly clean, and more than adequate for our needs.

Facilities on the boat itself were limited – we’d opted to travel with Celtic Link, which is primarily freight company, but that also takes passengers. The usual children’s play area and shops were absent, but the lounge was comfortable, and we had plenty of colouring books and activities with us to keep the munchkins occupied. As a backup I’d also brought along a selection of children’s DVDs to play on the laptop.

All of our meals were included in the price of the ferry too – dinner on the evening of departure, and breakfast and lunch the following day. The food, like the cabin, was much better than I expected it to be, and there was plenty of it. There was also free tea, coffee and water available for the duration of the voyage, and a bar selling drinks at normal prices, as opposed to the inflated rates you’d expect to pay on a ferry.

The verdict from the children was unanimous: this was “the best ferry ever”. Based on our crossing I’d have say that I’m inclined to agree with them.

Technorati Tags: Ferry travel, children, parenting