Writing for life

I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret as we drove over the Pyrenees. Our passage from Spain into France marked the beginning of the end of our lengthy sojourn on the continent. We were finally on our way home.

Despite a soggy first few days in France the road trip with the children had proved a remarkable success. We’d packed plenty into our trip, and after the initial spell of inclement weather we’d had our fair share of sunshine. The kids had enjoyed themselves immensely, and when the children are happy, by extension so are Mum and Dad.

We were looking forward to a relaxing few days in France before getting the ferry back from Cherbourg to Rosslare. Little did we know that we’d never make the boat.

It happened all of a sudden. One minute we were travelling along the road towards a town called Mont de Marsan, the next the driver’s side wheels touched the grass verge and everything went haywire. My wife, who was driving, swerved back onto the road, but overcompensated. The car veered into the oncoming carriageway, right into the path of a truck. I remember grabbing the wheel and swerving us back onto our own side of the road, then we lost control.

The car skidded first one way, then the other before careening off a twelve foot bank into the ditch below. At times like this the adrenalin kicks in: your brain goes into overdrive and the world around you slows to a crawl. Your senses become heightened and you notice everything in minute detail – sights, sounds, smells, touch… everything.

In the passenger seat I was busy noticing the undergrowth rushing slowly towards the windscreen. I braced myself for impact, and then we hit with a sickening crunch. I watched with detached interest as the front of the car folded in on itself, like a cereal box being crushed for recycling. My mind was on three things: the children. I was willing the car to stop so that I could look after them. It finally came to rest and the world lurched back to normal speed.

I quickly checked myself over. Everything appeared to be where it should be, and I wasn’t in any immediate pain. A glance at my wife told me that she was conscious, and was busy unbuckling her seatbelt. I followed her lead, pushed open the door and went to check on the girls.

In the back seat the three-year-old was crying in her car seat – which was a good sign. She was fine. One of the twins, who was sitting next to her, was fine too, apart from a few abrasion marks from her seatbelt. Then I saw my other daughter in the back row, her head slumped against the window, blood trickling from her nose. Between her closed eyes a rapidly growing bulge was turning a violent purple-blue colour. My heart lurched, and for a moment I feared the worst – but when I spoke to her she opened her eyes, was able to talk to me and could move her arms, legs, fingers and toes.

After one night in a French hospital she was discharged with nothing more serious than a slight fracture to her left elbow. Our insurance company flew us home a few days later, leaving the remains of the car in France.

It had been a horrific end to what had been an otherwise fantastic trip – but it could have been so much worse. We’re just glad to be home with everyone in one piece.

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