Down The Rocky Road – Mown, Mown, Mown

Carrick-On-Shannon is a great place for a walk and a drink

I would like to introduce you to the Irish word craic, pronounced the same as crack. It actually comes from Northern English, where it meant “chat” or “gossip”. If you said “what’s the crack?”, it meant “what’s been happening?” Someone might say “there was some good crack at the pub last night”, meaning the banter flowed freely and there were a lot of fun things to talk about. This takes on an extra meaning in Ireland, where it also refers to a very special type of amusement – the kind that everyone in your circle finds hilarious although others might not. Sometimes the target will see the funny side, and other times not.

For example, in one railway station, they stuck the timetable on the electronic door so anyone wanting to read it would get close before it moved to the side. And when you move over to read it, the door would of course close, taking the timetable with it. People who discovered this sat there watching the stream of unfortunates try to read the timetable. It’s dark humour but even the head of Health and Safety at Haringey Council would chuckle. That’s the purest definition of craic.

On Wednesday morning, we became victims of this ourselves. The evening before, the children went to look for something in the car and left three of the doors open all night. I discovered this when I left our caravan to check the post. The post box was empty, but a letter was sitting on the driver’s seat in the car, doors still wide open. Utterly brilliant trolling; made my day – we didn’t stop grinning from breakfast to dinner.

I have also been involved in this activity myself: before we left Spain, the previous owner of our property told me of a man in his early eighties, a former farmer who lives just round the corner from us and was looking forward to meeting us. He is a local legend as only a few years ago he was brutally gored by a bull, its horn ripping through him, causing him to spend a year in hospital recovering. The story of his resilience made it to the TV and press as well. But he is a bit of a character and everyone around knows of him. As we were coming from Spain, I bought him an appropriate present: a bullfighter’s hat and cape. I hope he wears them at the pub.

An exhibit at Glenview Folk Museum

On Monday 14 July we went to Glenview Folk Museum near Ballinamore. It’s packed full of artifacts from past times, and the man who runs the place takes you on a tour round the various objects and displays at lightning speed. There’s a salvaged food truck from the 1920s in there, a massive collection of eggcups, an early electric sports car from 50 years ago (no joke), and a huge number of exhibits from different genres, such as apothecary, newsagent, café, domestic, and automotive.

Just a year ago, we would not have been able to spend so long in such a place, but things are changing and the children are getting a lot more interested in this type of thing. Except Livia, who shut off after a while and went outside.

The children look on as sheep eat away at their inheritance

The next morning, we woke up to find several sheep outside our window: they had escaped from their field and had decided to come over for a mini-break. The weather had been quite changeable, so we took them to a soft play centre in Fenagh Visitors’ Centre. It’s always a huge surprise to show up in small villages and find such facilities – we have virtually everything we need around us, despite being a million miles from a large city.

Seán's sheep

Seán often appears in the area either herding his sheep with a quad bike or checking on his land to make sure the sheep are secure. He promised me one of the lads would come up and cut our land as the grass was starting to get very tall. A lot of it had been appropriated by reeds, and it needed a proper tractor to mow it.

On Monday we were in Longford at a mower shop – I bought a very heavy-duty brush cutter and strimmer at a specialist shop, and then we went to Carrick-On-Shannon to buy some garden tools, such as a rake and a spade. While we were there, Seán called and said one of the lads was coming up to cut our grass. We hurried back from Carrick to find almost all of it done. What would have taken an ordinary mower at least a full day had been done with the tractor in a matter of minutes.

The tractor mows part of our field

The lad on the tractor was 17 years old and handled the immense beast like a vacuum cleaner in an empty room. I gave him a couple of notes for his efforts and we had a chat. Clever kid, had a lot to say – he could have been 40 years old. Anyway, it seems with all these people we’ve met, we’re on the way to becoming part of the local fabric.

We also took a trip to a place called Bóthar na Naomh, a country park with a predetermined path to follow. The shorter route is only a couple of kilometres, and mainly on the flat, so we decided to try it out on the children. I remember when we went to the Garbí near Sagunto for the first time – they complained a great deal about having to walk along the stony paths through all the trees. By the fifth time, it was much easier although Livia was still reluctant.

Here, things hadn’t changed, at least initially. For the first couple of hundred metres, Livia was enraged to the point of explosion that anyone would actually want to go for a walk anywhere, but once she had calmed down and saw where she was, she started to enjoy it. The nature there is resplendent, with a mix of woodland wildflowers and open field ones too. There were meadowsweet, St John’s wort, cornflower, mountain ash. fireweed, syringa, wild orchid, lupin, hollyhock, bee blossom, salvia, saxifrage, hawthorn, elm, beech, oak, cypress, and those are just the ones I could name.

We walked through the forested area, taking longer than usual, because Dainoris and Milda wanted to look at the flora. This was incredibly encouraging. Livia was starting to get in the mood as well. Then we came to the open part, which straddled the edge of a lake and some wide open pastures with cows grazing. Except one: standing menacingly in the meadow, staring at us like a coked-up night club bouncer looking for some action, was an angry-looking cow with an expression of world-weariness mixed with utter paranoia. She seemed the type of cow that would kick your car windows in and steal all your belongings while you and your family were sitting in there terrified. See if you can tell in the photo which one…

Yes, that’s her, the ruthless bovine colossus.

The children had been asking about doing some more activities, especially ones with meaning, which was a credit to their personalities. A week or two ago, there was a poster in the window of The Corner café advertising a Martial Arts course for kids. I proposed it to them and they were delighted. Every day they kept asking, “are we going to Ninja School today?”

So on Wednesday 23 July, we drove to the community hall in Ballinamore to begin their training. Initially, I told Livia she couldn’t go, because I didn’t think she would be able to pay attention and listen to the instructor. How wrong was I? Not only did she pay attention, she loved every minute of it. Dainoris came away tired but elated. However Milda was not so overjoyed – she decided it wasn’t for her and we respect her decision. She wants to do dance classes instead.

Ninja School - image blurred for obvious reasons

It started with some basic instructions like stand up, hands in the air, now by your sides. But it developed into running up and down, or hopping to the middle, or frog leaping. Livia followed every step and listened to the whole thing.

Then came the breakthrough we have all been waiting for: the instructor said they would be getting their white gowns the coming week and to earn a different colour to go on their belts, they have to do their homework, and this week their homework is to help their parents clean up.

Well.

The day after, Livia not only helped us tidy up, she did the whole thing herself. Since then, she has taken on an air of responsibility and has started putting importance on household maintenance. She still flares up, but she has started to demonstrate more independence and self-confidence.

Roly-Poly Hill, Ballinamore

After the Ninja School, we went outside to the playground and the children did some more running about. Where on Earth they get their energy from beats me. They intentionally get up at a time when adults slouch out of bed to get ready for work. They eat the bare minimum until an intervention from a parent, yet they charge around like they’d been given an athlete’s diet and a litre of coffee. This carries on all day until they have a little crash. This crash and resulting short nap allows them to go on until as late as possible, even if they’ve spent an hour charging around a hall.

I took a walk through Ballinamore’s public park. It is a happy place, and full of everyday life – the kids playing football with a couple of bags as goalposts; the old geezer out for a run; the mother on the phone while her children blow bubbles; a dad, his son and a friend cracking a hurling ball across the park, and my three rolling down the steep spectator banks on the far side of the field, screaming with laughter.

Here, also, I discovered one of the trees of my youth: the Lawson’s cypress, also known as the Oregon cedar, a tree so grand and tall, that it’s essentially permanent nighttime under its fronds. I loved those trees as they remind me of my childhood. They have these unique berries that look like sultanas but are as hard as rubber balls. It’s hard to come to terms with the rubbish you did as a child, but at least you can comfort yourself in some of the more pleasant memories.

Our horticultural hoard

There’s a garden centre about ten minutes after Carrick called Ardcarne, and it is a haven of horticultural happiness. On Thursday 24 July, we drove out there to see what we would like to put in the garden. Thinking we were just going to look, I forgot how insistent the children are, especially Dainoris. He looks at something in a shop and wants to buy it: whether it be a spare part for a lawnmower, a packet of dishwasher tablets, a milk churn, a set of oyster knives, a crystal lampshade, a 1993 Charlton Athletic mug, or some Norwegian flags, Dainoris will take the lot if his eyes train on them.

So in the end, we came out of there with enough plants to turn part of our garden into a mini jungle. All the many staff in there were ultra friendly and the café was a lesson in how to make sure people keep coming back. We had a good gluttonous cake session in there before we headed out to buy some plants. And this is the main issue – the garden wasn’t ready for any plants so I’d need to get back and start preparing the ground pretty quickly. We bought the basic garden tools and some compost, and the next day I dug out a space for many of the plants and shrubs we had bought. There would be a lower flower bed, and with the earth I had dug, there would be a mound to use as a windbreaker.

The children tried to help but generally they fulfilled the role of disturbers and tormentors: I can’t find my shoes! They’re in the shoe bin. Where are you going to put that plant? There. What’s its name? Colin. It winds me down to the point of giving up, but all that money we spent on the plants keeps me going. It will be ready by the end of July. However, Dainoris has shown a lot of interest in gardening, so I can only encourage it. He even made his own little rockery.

Coming up: August Bank Holidays in Ireland are full of events for everyone. The next is on 4 August. Looking forward to it!

EXTRA PHOTOS BELOW

Bóthar na Naomh, wild flowers

Bóthar na Naomh

Bóthar na Naomh

Carrick-On-Shannon

Mown.

Down The Rocky Road: The First Steps

The road to our house

Ireland is not a good country for a VW Tayron. Equipped with the latest risk-averse technology that Germany is famous for, the appropriately grey-coloured beast bleeped and pinged its way through the narrow country lanes, telling me that obstacles lay in our path.

BING! Beware, an unkempt hedgerow!

I know, and I can’t do anything about the décor, so just live with it.

PING! You are approaching another vehicle!

That’s right, because we’re coming up to a roundabout.

RING! (Music goes much quieter) I’ve noticed you’re reversing and approaching an object. Are you sure you want to proceed?

Yes, it’s a white painted line in a huge car park. You’ll live, just keep reversing, and stop fading out my playlist to tell me something I already know.

DINGALING! Your left wheel is precariously over this road's central line!

Well done, Sherlock. I’m taking a bend to the right on an empty country road.

I shouldn’t have to justify myself to a mere vehicle, but these days, with their ability to speak to you, they take on a kind of personality. In fact, the VW Tiguan we had the last time we came to Ireland is still a living legend with the children – they called her Mrs Car and even now they compare her to the one we have this time. Needless to say Mrs Car is more cherished than the control freak we have this time.

Emptying the car on arrival

The Rocky Road To Ireland, Part Three: The Week Before The Week After

 ITINERARY:

Monday 30 June 19:50: arrival in Dublin

Monday 30 June 20:30: take our hire car to Dublin City Centre and check in to our overnight accommodation

Tuesday 1 July morning: drive to Leitrim, stay at a local holiday home for a week while we prepare our new home

The rest of the week: make the place liveable

Tuesday 8 July: move in

We're here

We landed in Dublin bang on time at just before 8pm. The flight was incredibly uneventful, thankfully, and the children had a marvellous time just enjoying the fluffy clouds and talking to the lovely Irish lady in the same row as us. The doors to the plane opened to a fresh Irish Sea breeze and the soft light of a northern summer evening. We walked across the tarmac and into the airport terminal. The word terminal is actually a very good word for this building – it goes on for miles. And miles. And miles.

Reaching the luggage carousel, the bags were dancing round already. We gathered the array of belongings we brought, stacked them on three trolleys, and went through to the public area to locate the hire car office. I had booked an SUV for 4 weeks, but the guy at reception took one look at our luggage and said it would never fit in the one he’d reserved for us. So he went to the back and brought some other keys. He upgraded us to the largest monster he could find for no extra cost. I know there are other customer service motives behind all this but it certainly left an impression.

We had to continue our pilgrimage from plane to car via terminal, as he told us it was parked at the very end of the car rental zone, but I don’t think any of us minded because we had so far managed the impossible: we seemed to have extricated ourselves from Valencia with all the belongings we could carry, and got to the car that would take us to our next abode.

It was an almost brand new Volkswagen Tayron with enough boot space to hold the Champions League Final, and fit all our bags with a little to spare. It was still a tight squeeze, but we managed it. We had even brought the three child seats with us as it was cheaper than hiring them from any car rental company.

Not the place we stayed in, but a typical Dublin scene nonetheless

But it was late, so in anticipation of our late arrival, we had booked a night in Dublin to give us a good run the day after. Our accommodation was apparently a guest house by the River Liffey with views onto the embankment. There was still an hour or two of light, but it had turned overcast and by the time we had pulled into the car park near the guest house, it had started to rain. We left most of the bags in the car and pulled out a couple of pre-packed overnight bags and our laptops. This was the moment Livia chose to have a complete meltdown: entering the rain-soaked streets in her summer clothes was always going to be risky, but that was just a little too much for her and she went into a full public hysterical diatribe that caused even passengers on passing buses to glance down to see what the issue was.

The map on my phone was telling us we were outside the guest house, but all I could see was a row of shuttered shops, except for a particularly dingy-looking sandwich shop, and a rather dodgy bus stop in front. I looked at the doors as we passed and there was nothing that resembled the entrance to a guest house. I looked at the app and checked the messages the owner sent me the day before, which said the door shared space with a tea and sandwich takeaway shop. Oh yes, we saw that…

The windowless door required a code to enter, which was in another email. This was now looking like a rather bad choice, but it was half the price of the place we stayed in last time. We lugged our stuff inside, not forgetting the appalling complaints still being emitted from Livia, and I looked in yet another email to locate our room. It was number 11 on the first floor. We got to the door of number 11 where we heard cries from a baby inside.

Using a code to open the room door that was sent in yet another email, I found an entire family of five, the mother feeding a baby, the father folding a packet of biscuits into an overnight bag, and two other young kids munching on them.

“I think we’re supposed to be here,” I said to him.

“Yes, we arrived here only an hour ago to find someone else.”

I suddenly got a huge sense of foreboding. We hadn’t come all this way to have our belongings stolen by one of the previous occupants who knew the code. The guy said he and his family were only going to be there another half hour as they were leaving. This made no sense to me, so of course I smelt a very stinky rat. The guy called the owner for us, to enquire about the current uncomfortable situation. He put me on speaker and told me he was going to send us another email and give us a room further up.

We had a little chat with the family and headed up to find our room. We wondered what we would find up there – a lonely cat lover with a bunch of felines spread out on each bed? A French Revolution reenactment group practising for a beheading in the morning? A bunch of nuns in their briefs having a pillow fight? A Swiss on an Alphorn and an Australian on a didgeridoo having a parp-off? The opening scenes of Les Misérables being performed by the employees of Hooters? Two oiled-up Turkish wrestlers grappling with each other? Or the worst of all, a couple of teenagers ignoring each other as they stare at their own phones? As it was, the room was empty, and we opened the window to let in some air before we went straight out for food. Bonny Bee thought we shouldn’t leave our laptops in the room, and I agreed.

On the way to Leitrim

Walking a few hundred metres with some uppity hungry children at 10 in the evening (it would have been 11 for us), we stumbled upon a famous burger joint. To desecrate my chain outlet principles twice in a day would probably drive me to the edge of existential doubt. But next door was a fifties-style diner, which had a more appealing menu and people who brought you your food. The adjacent place could learn something about that… We tucked in to some tremendous fare – I’m not a big fan of vertical food, but they made it look worth eating. And the chips were the best I’d eaten since I was last in Belgium.

We were all tired and ratty, so we just ate up and left. It wasn’t the cheapest fast food dinner we’d had, but at least we could sleep now. When we arrived back at Iniquity Towers, everything was still there. We used the communal bathroom to give ourselves a decent wash and went straight to sleep.

The morning revealed a moderately humdrum sky and a fair amount of rain was forecast. In all truth, there wasn’t that much in the end, but I once spoke to the makers of a weather app and they told me they always went with the worst-case scenario, so people were pleasantly surprised rather than furious because they had to cancel their barbecue.

We removed the car from its overnight stay in a nearby car park and made the choice to drive to Longford on the way. We knew a splendid little café called Ménara tucked down a side street in the city with a range of imaginative sandwiches and cakes. The kitchen is the size of a telephone box, but what comes out of it is remarkable.

We then took a short drive to Dromod, to the pub run by the auctioneer who sold our house to us. He had the keys to our house and he told us we could come past and pick them up. His pub is a regional landmark; a place where things happen. And he is a mover and a shaker – a person many of us would follow into battle. He appeared at our car window with an envelope and a chunky bulk of metal, wishing us a very happy time at our new installation. He invited us in for a cup of tea and drinks, and then we were on our way.

We had booked a week in a bungalow run by a holiday homes agent about 15 minutes north of our new place, with a garden and a proper kitchen; a kind of last week with all the modern conveniences before we moved into our rickety old caravan next to our new house. I got a few provisions from the local supermarket and we drove to the bungalow. It had a lovely driveway but the car was only a few centimetres narrower than the brick gateposts.

The house and garden we stayed at for our first week

Aside from that, the house was spacious and somehow snug at the same time. There were two bathrooms, a luxury we were about to lose for the time being, and a well-manicured lawn. The TV would also be something they’d be losing for a while, so we weren’t going to push it if they wanted to watch a few episodes of Peppa Pig or Vida the Vet.

We spent the week getting to know the area and introducing ourselves to a number of locals, such as the girls in the coffee shop, the staff of the butcher shop, and the lady at the bits and bobs shop.

A local traffic signal in Cloone

We also got to know the best place to get what: we went to McHugh’s Furniture in Cloone to look at beds, sofas and wardrobes, but they were new and we weren’t going to be spending a lot of money on something that could be temporary. Jordan’s Furniture in Ballinamore was a far cheaper option – most of the stuff in there is from either salvage or house sales.

Then there’s Carrick-On-Shannon, a lively town of just a few thousand inhabitants that punches well above its weight: with a vast choice of pubs and restaurants, this place is known as Ireland’s stag- & hen-night capital.

Longford was also a place we would be frequenting – not the prettiest or the safest city in Ireland, but a real hotbed of activity. Both places have a refreshing number of international food and drink shops, and I introduced the children to some sausages from Poland: kabanos to nibble on, kielbasa for the frying pan; both greatly appreciated.

Great pancakes at this place

We collected a few items we would need to move into the static caravan the following Tuesday, such as bed linen, kitchen equipment, cutlery, plates and bowls, an air mattress, some cleaning fluids, and a couple of extension leads. We also ordered a fridge, a washing machine, a mini induction cooker, and an electric fryer with a lid. The larger things were to be delivered the following week, which would be a great start to our residence.

In the meantime, we took a few trips to some of the local pubs and cafés. Considering this is the most sparsely populated part of the country, there is a surprising amount to do, and the place is often teeming with people. I freely admit we’re not in a metropolis, we’re not even in something equal to a suburb of a small country town, but that was the reason for moving: we needed a gentler pace of life. In Valencia, things never stopped – it was a relentless bombardment of obligations, hindrances, and requests that gave us so little time to enjoy life, and when we did have the time, we were too tired. Paradoxically, because of all the venues and events around us, we suffered from extreme choice paralysis.

A trip to the Druid's Altar

Being here in this weathered, undulating landscape, with its bulbous hills and mountains, its lush, fecund valleys and water-speckled lowlands, the sunlight playing an equal part to the clouds, it felt like the perfect place to relieve ourselves of the unrelenting stresses of the three preceding years. The people we had met – those at the cafés, bars, shops and parks, had made it much easier to come down off the relocate to this much less eventful place. At this stage, it was a novelty, but like a lot of these things, I can imagine it becoming a bane if we don’t embrace life here fully.

The Druid's Altar

They say if you show up to a place in fear and dread with no intention of participating in local life, you will hate it. If you come with an open mind ready to integrate and adapt, you will thrive. This is our intention here, as it always has been wherever we go: as Irish people are so kind-hearted, decent, sociable and witty, it just might be a little easier to succeed.

Pub and Funeral Director: ideal for wakes

One of the many magical trees

In the next part, we will describe our first impressions and experiences of moving in to our new dwelling.

The Rocky Road To Ireland, Part Two: Please Control Your Children

Days 7 to 1 (24-30 June 2025)

ITINERARY:

Tuesday 24 June 10:50: flight to Nantes, hire car, drive to a holiday park near St Nazaire for 6 days

Monday 30 June 19:10: flight to Dublin, arrival time, 19:50

Tuesday 1 July morning: drive to Leitrim, start all over again

The plane lifted into the baking Spanish air at a little before eleven in the morning on Tuesday 24 June. As soon as it was airborne, I felt a lot of the poison of the previous few months seemed to dissipate as we climbed higher and glided further away from Valencia.

Let me give you a little rundown of the (abridged) list of reasons we decided to leave Valencia:

·      For almost the entire time we lived in the apartment by the sea, we were being systematically targeted by the neighbour directly below us. He and his partner resented the fact they had only ever had someone living above them for two months of the year. For the rest of the time they had no direct neighbours. We had six punctured tyres over a period of 18 months, and a glued matchstick in the main door lock, which I luckily discovered before it had dried. He also invited his friends over for frequent gatherings that went on until 1 or 2 in the morning. He thought we were bothered by it, but once we went to our bedrooms, we could hardly hear a thing. We had periodically neighbours above us and their one child was noisier than our three combined. We barely noticed. I can only imagine the guy had issues with us other than the noise.

·       On a similar note, there is a higher and more obvious number of highly-strung people than I have ever encountered. I think this is because everyone lives on top of each other in urban zones and the vast majority of the rest of the country is empty. It’s like an overcrowded mini-Australia: everyone is conglomerated around the coastline and at the central capital, and the rest is a brown barren wasteland. Because of the claustrophobic atmosphere, I was often on the receiving end of a colossal amount of vindictiveness, despite frequently not knowing what I had done.

·       An example of this is as follows – I gave one of the Club Hemingway regulars a lesson in choice of word to use, as he had uttered something unacceptable (the most unacceptable word in the English language, several times), and he started bombarding my blog with DDoS bots. I still get them today, despite this having taken place in March. He also decided to wreak revenge on another person involved with the event by sabotaging their relationship with a mutual acquaintance of his. This caused a lot of upheaval, and the sociopathic firestarter doesn’t care.

·       You can find the rest at the end of this article. They’re quite biting, so don’t read them if you don’t think it’s constructive.

It was for these very reasons that now we were airborne, and Spain was thankfully part of our past. We chose to move to Ireland because we all said that we would prefer to smile in the rain than pout and strut in the sun. A lot of expats in Spain suffer from Shiny Object Syndrome: they put aside the fact Spain is a mess, because of the sun. Most don’t actually interact with the administration, so they have no idea just how disorganised and byzantine the system is – it’s like they’re on a perpetual holiday without a front desk.

Before we reached Ireland, though, we were due to take a short break in western France, close to Brittany. The flight to Nantes was just under two hours. The problem we have faced on several occasions has been one of infant self-expression. In Spain, this wasn’t an issue as everyone’s so loud, but it was about to become one with a hypocritical couple on the flight. She was on the left, he on the right, two rows in front. She had her hair rudely draped over the back of her seat and was preening herself in between locking lips with him. I guessed either honeymoon or (more likely) poolside Instagram private hideaway alone with only him and her uninterested online followers. Dainoris was playing with Milda from his seat behind, and Milda was squealing with laughter. It wasn’t particularly loud and it had only really just begun. The man got a little animated and headed up towards me.

“Please control your children. They are making a lot of noise,” said @InstaPoolGrrl’s current pet boyfriend and unwitting spokesman.

“You can try, but it’s like herding cats,” I replied.

“Let me speak to them,” he declared, in the heroic manner his boss lady expected. He even put his fist to his chest, as if he was remaking Spartacus. Then he addressed the three of them like an army tank driver explaining a complicated manoeuvre to a bunch of cyclists at a vegan convention. He had had absolutely no experience of talking to anyone outside his age range. The children looked bewildered, nodded out of sheer politeness, and carried on their little game as if they’d just clicked “skip” on a pointless YouTube ad.

Draped InstaHairdo

He didn’t come over again, but I could clearly see he was trying hard to explain to his social media employer-lover with the stray hair why he had failed. When we landed and she passed our row, I gave her one of my “WTF?” Death Stares. She tried hard to avoid eye contact, and walked on as if nothing had happened.

We landed at Nantes Airport and were immediately greeted with a bearable breeze and a huge pile of luggage to fit into a Toyota BZ4X electric car that I had booked for us. And rather fortunately, because any other car in a similar category would have required two journeys.

The Toyota BZ4X ConsonantGasm is a beast. It has everything I have ever expected out of a car: it not only looks sleek, it has Assisted Cruise Control to the extent that it is virtually self-driving. On top of that, it takes off from zero at a ludicrous speed. At one set of traffic lights, some jerk in a Merc tried to overtake me by choosing the bus lane next to mine with the intention of accelerating faster than me in my 22-Point Lay In Scrabble Car. Nope. The Toyota just left the other one for dust. Moral of the story: don’t mess with a German-trained driver in a Japanese battery-operated car.

I stacked our stuff in the belly of the beast and we drove the hour-and-a-half to our holiday park in the picturesque countryside of the Loire-Atlantique. The French reputation for bad driving is actually quite a myth; at least in these parts. The refreshing sight of drivers using their indicators for the most part correctly, and keeping to within the speed limits, was a revelation. I did have a few nasty encounters with local drivers, but that could have been because our car had a 75 licence plate, meaning it was registered in central Paris, the epicentre of French vitriol and resentment. We were potential unwitting pariahs on the highways of western France.

All this luggage and five people need to squeeze in there

Arriving at the holiday park, I felt another great weight lifting off my shoulders – we had made the journey this far with all our stuff. And what a place it was: nestled under some fine mature trees, the beautifully designed domain contained everything we needed to enjoy a few days decompressing from the stress of leaving Valencia and taking approximately 130 kilograms of our belongings on the first leg of our journey to Ireland. There was a superb swimming area with a heated indoor pool, an outdoor pool with an island, bridge, waterfall and kids’ paddling zone, another pool with three water slides; and the crowning glory, a sand-filled beach-style pool about three times bigger than the rest. The bar and restaurant had a pool table, darts board, video games, table football, and a good selection of drinks. Everything worked correctly, and none of it looked outdated. Don’t know about the food, I cooked every evening.

The holiday park early in the morning at its calmest

Hidden under a canopy of pine and deciduous trees, the place had a special level of acoustics: the kind that makes it feel like you’re in a large room. The central driveway passed some stone-built lodges in amongst all the mobile homes before arriving at the manor house at the end. Our own accommodation was a hundred metres from the entrance on a branch track on the left. It had everything we needed, even four bedrooms. My first job was to empty the luggage from the car, which had manifested itself as carrier of the most cumbersome pile of uselessness this side of Air Force One, then go to the supermarket and get in some provisions for the week. The receptionist told me there was one just a few minutes’ drive away, which suited me perfectly. I was spent as it was, but there was still a whole evening to get through, and the kids were both wired and tired.

The following day was slightly windy and cool, in the low twenties. We took a drive in the area, visiting some of the towns and villages, just relaxing and letting our bodies adjust to the new interim situation.

Awaiting lunch in Carnac town centre

The day after was slightly warmer but with the odd rain shower around. We decided to head into Brittany and go to Carnac, the famed location of the standing stone alignments. There are over three-thousand standing stones here, about 5,000 years old. There are also menhirs, tumuli, dolmens and row upon row of stones, probably used for important ceremonies. Mainly granite, some of the stones weighed several tons, and were transported from the wider area. The planning, transportation, arrangement, and placement of these megaliths would have required a great deal of teamwork and creativity. The children were fascinated by these formations and had a lot of questions. We have now filled in their missing history issue of what came after the dinosaurs.

   

The Three Little Monsters at Carnac

Another excursion involved a visit to St Nazaire, a large seaport and site of one of the most breathtaking stories of World War Two. Take a look at Operation Chariot, and you will understand what happened there – it’s incredible. Jeremy Clarkson did a BBC documentary on it in the mid-2000s. The town itself is nothing special now, obviously, as it was rebuilt after the War, but the cafés and shops down near the beach are lovely. We sat and had some fast food, which the French oddly seem to specialise in. I did find a decent goat’s cheese salad, though. The rest tucked in to edible yellow, orange and brown oily grub.

St Nazaire seafront

A cold wind was blowing quite viciously, which made a difference to the hair drier breeze we had back in Valencia, but there were still people sunbathing. My guess is they were from stronger stock than those in Spain: there was a lot of blue sky but plenty of fluffy clouds to cast shadows. Dainoris wanted to see the submarine, so we took a stroll to the Local History Museum; it was cheap and close by. However, it was an airless former warehouse and the submarine was in another museum. He was devastated to the extent that he started smashing up the city infrastructure and needed restraining, but the sight of a crêperie took his mind off it. We hadn’t had dessert, so we didn’t need an excuse to enter.

Livia poses in front of a huge model of an ocean liner

Reaching the car, I drove back to the holiday village. The weather was about to turn warmer, so the following day we resolved to spend some time mooching at the pool. Just doing nothing and having no plan, deciding from moment to moment what to do, no regrets, was such a pleasant change that even on the evening before we had to depart, we felt serene and rested: a stark difference to what was about to befall us.

Due to the mountain of bags we had taken, earlier on in the week, I had decided to remove a great deal of items and send them by post to lower the burden and Ryanair extra baggage costs. The car would then be just totally full, rather than ludicrously overburdened, and the rest of our journey would be easier.

The children were having a great time interacting with other kids in the huge pool area, and we were regretting only booking for a few days. I think we will have to return to that place, as it is so beautiful and there is so much to see and do in the area.

The pool area before opening time

On the morning of 30 June, 2025, we filled the car and set off for Nantes Airport. We needed to be there by 1pm to return the car, although the flight wasn’t until after 7 in the evening. I wasn’t sure how we were going to fill up the rest of the day, but I guessed we’d soon find out. We stopped at a shopping centre with an electric filling station for an hour on the way, going shopping and having a much-needed drink while we waited.

The Beast

At a quarter to one, the employee at the car hire firm took the best car I’ve ever driven and promised me the deposit would be returned within the week. Then we loaded the luggage onto three trolleys and went into the airport to await our flight. Nantes Airport is not that large, and soon we had seen everything the place had to offer. Outside was an angry 38C, but we at least had a little respite from that in the terminal building. I say a little, the building is one of the worst terminals I have ever seen: there are nearly no places to sit on the lower floors, although the aircon was working almost adequately. Upstairs, where there were sections of roof letting in the sunlight, there were plenty of places to sit but it was like being in an airless greenhouse with no plants.

We struggled around like cats looking for a place to sleep. It was lunchtime but nowhere was really doing it for us – we settled on a few snacks from some sandwich chain and looked for a place to have a drink. Around the side, away from everything, there was a café with ample seating. We had struck gold – but then, once we had put our three trolleys at a table making it harder to leave, I turned around to witness an apparition so horrifying and so sickening that I felt nauseous in the pit of my stomach: the circular green logo with the crowned siren staring at me from the walls. We had entered  a Starbucks. This was the lowest point of the year. Any self-respecting coffee drinker entering one of these establishments has either got lost or saw a thief entering one with his/her stuff.

But here we were, and there was little possibility to turn around, so I held my nose and reluctantly joined the queue. The cup sizes increased from tankard to bathtub to cement truck. Did I want the jug of marshmallow espresso, the bucket of skinny cinnamon frothy latte, the barrel of pork belly corndog monster crush with a mouthwash chaser, or the bladder-busting tanker of iced salted caramel americano, woodchip or charcoal sprinkles with an optional incontinence pad?

I asked if they had ordinary cup size, and after a knowing side-glance to each other, they found a one-use cup the size of a proper household mug and filled it with what they considered coffee. It wasn’t bad, but I’m afraid I have too much self-respect to ever go in another Starbucks again. They had some rather bland cakes and coloured ring-shaped ones which seemed to have more sugary icing than dough. I opted for none at all, as did the kids, which was telling.

I hate food and drink chain outlets with a visceral passion usually reserved for my nemeses, but I reserve a particular level of bitterness towards any establishment that can ruin coffee. It’s so demeaning to a noble and rich cultural symbol of civilisation. So what Starbucks has done to it is like watching your favourite author sign up to appear in the jungle reality show, or your most cherished auntie being arrested for housing a crack den. These propagators of junk drinks should be taken to court to wrest the good name of coffee back from their barbaric clutches. Maybe, like those other EU regulations, they can be forced to call themselves “coffee-based drink outlets” or “coffee-themed drinks dispensers with seating”.

We stayed just long enough to drink our coffee-flavoured milkshakes and get out of there before we were spotted. There’s a reason why this chain has found it rough to conquer Italy or Australia – two countries with a rich tradition in real coffee. The perfectly balanced flat white is an Australian creation, and one I relish drinking.

So we preferred to stand and wait at the airless check-in area for 45 minutes before they opened than to sit on a chair in Starbucks. A matter of protecting one’s pride, even to the detriment of our comfort. The children were getting seriously irritating by this point, as they had been in this matrix for nearly five hours. Livia was rolling on the floor and the other two were running around screaming. Everyone else there was too exhausted to care: including us.

At a minute after the allotted time, the Ryanair agent appeared and started calling us to check in our luggage. She didn’t make a fuss like those at Valencia; she just did her job and smiled. She was very good at handling a crowd. We then made our way upstairs with the rest of our belongings and did the usual modus operandi for boarding: all so functional. We settled into our seats on the plane and awaited take-off. There were six seats in our row and as we sat there staring at the evening haze rising off the scorched tarmac, the sixth spot was filled by a lovely Irish mother who had a really good rapport with Dainoris. It was a revelation to listen to their conversation. If this was the type of thing we could expect in the future, I felt very positive.

EXTRA PHOTOS:

A typical sight on the roads of Brittany

Carnac is a lovely town

Dainoris and Milda in Carnac

Some of the magnificent trees in the area

The standing stones are very impressive

You can touch some of the ones on the raised path

Livia skirts a play area on St Nazaire beach

Shady trees

The play area at the holiday park

A viewing platform at Carnac

CAUTION, STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD:

Below is the rest of the list of reasons we left Spain. Read at your peril!

• ·       The contemptibly inept administration, both regional and national, is a labyrinthine mess not fit for purpose. It can only be rehabilitated if the country is taken over by a benevolent dictator from another country with a doctorate in state reform and a master in infrastructure planning. Whether getting a residence certificate, applying for a solar panel grant, or seeking a school for your kids, you can find yourself being refused, told that the service is not available, or being granted an appointment very far in the future.
• ·       Using the government apps is like playing one of those online games where you always end up losing but you think you’re close to cracking it, so if you go through the whole bloody process again after being kicked out, you’ll maybe get what you want. But you never do and around and around you go. Also, going physically to the administration can be time-consuming and you may get sent away with a long list of items you need to bring along next time.
• ·       Spain is a low-trust society. For example, you need to show ID everywhere, even to receive a package at your own front door. They’d nail the sea to the floor if they could.
• ·       On the whole, Spanish people are pretty indifferent to outsiders. This is not a blanket national status – some do actually attempt to make friends with you, but until you get invited to their house for dinner, you are still just an acquaintance. In our coworking space, there were mainly foreign nationals, but there was one group of Spanish lads that occupied an office at the back. They sometimes said hello, but we’d never knew if they were there except for when the toilet had been desecrated.
• ·       Furthermore, you will find that you will be blamed for not integrating, despite the fact that they don’t actually allow you to. They will complain that you are always hanging out in your expat bubble and that you don’t eat a hearty dinner at the ungodly hour of 10pm, but you will hardly ever see the inside of a Spanish friendship circle. If you do, you’re probably there to be deliberately made to feel impressed by the array of food on display and to be questioned on why you moved to sunny Spain and didn’t stay in your cloud-covered hovel in the depressed north. Expected answers will be induced, of course, and they’ll feel better about themselves. Everyone who goes to these stitch-ups usually ends up betraying their origins and the Spanish will feel nicely puffed up.
• ·       To deal with the overcrowding and housing crisis, there is a campaign to limit the scope of tourist rentals. Expats and tourists are to blame, apparently, for the high housing costs. The guiris go home movement has a large following, especially in Valencia, Málaga, the Balearics, and Barcelona. You would say this is maybe a good thing, except for one glaring hole in the plan: most of the properties are owned by Spanish people. Many Spanish have second homes, usually inherited, so lots of them make some extra money by renting their other properties out for a supreme amount of money during the season or from September to June.
• ·       Not all do, though: a large number leave their second residences empty for most of the year and just go there to get out of the city. In the apartment block where we were living, there were 42 apartments, meaning that well over 200 people could have been housed in there. But it remained empty for most of the year, and just during the more important holidays, plus mid-June to late August, the car parks filled up to the edges of the highway outside. The rest of the year the entire estate was a desolate, soulless concrete jungle where even the only shop closed.
• ·       If anything, the Spanish caused their own property bubble, but they are too caught up in their own mirror-gazing to notice. It could have been so much different, but the Valencian propensity to think only about themselves and blame everyone else for their rotten lives (which aren’t that rotten, but they are badly afflicted by victim mentality) has made sure your position in the local fabric of society is volatile, and unlikely to change any time soon.