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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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:
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| A typical sight on the roads of Brittany |
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| Carnac is a lovely town |
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| Dainoris and Milda in Carnac |
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| Some of the magnificent trees in the area |
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| The standing stones are very impressive |
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| You can touch some of the ones on the raised path |
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| Livia skirts a play area on St Nazaire beach |
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| Shady trees |
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| The play area at the holiday park |
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| 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.
