The last thing I wrote in my diary was months ago, on Friday, 2 September 2016.
“8.30 a.m. sailing from Poole to Cherbourg arriving at 12.30 p.m. - saw six dolphins and three sets of waves in the channel going in the opposite direction - very odd. Aston Martin DB5 parked next to us on the car deck - very jealous (not) but much discussion of single male driver”.
The thing that immediately strikes me about reading old diaries is that I shouldn’t.
You might ask whether the same applies to writing new ones.
Last year the beautiful wife, the delightful children, the stalwart friends and a range of inflatable hangers on, made the lengthy and perilous journey from Bristol, England to Ile De Re, France by a combination of car, ferry, grit and determination.
The result was a week of sybaritic bliss on an island retreat one kilometre offshore from La Rochelle in the Charente Maritime.
Had I taken the trouble to write more than three lines in dubious italics about the last year’s identical holiday, I would nonchalantly be able to refer to my earlier comments. Sadly, I didn’t.
Last year, perhaps unwisely with two 3-year-olds and one 45-year-old in tow, the beautiful wife opted for the 15 hour door-to-door scenic route. The redoubtable VW Passatt estate, duly rose to the challenge and delivered us, intact if not actually insane, to the welcoming Airbnb archway of chez Thiery and Catherine Pastor, Loix.
Last year, the journey down was eminently tolerable (with a week of French food, clean beaches and petrol blue skies to look forward to).
Last year, the journey back was arduous to say the least. At least that is what driving from Poole to Bristol at 2.00 a.m. feels like when even intravenous Red Bull can’t keep your eyelids sufficiently open to keep four wheels on the tarmac.
Having learned an important lesson from last year, that over optimism is the preserve of twats, we took a more realistic approach this year and sacrificed early arrival for leisurely travel. After all, how often are we told that it is the journey that counts and not the destination.
We nearly had to make do with the journey rather than the destination when, deep in conversation, we sailed past the Newbury bypass (regarded by some as a quintessential prerequisite to catching a a ferry at Portsmouth) straight into the jaws of traffic hell.
As we sat stationary, anxiously watching the big hand sweep round the clock face, the 45 minute contingency suddenly started to look breathlessly inadequate. As 29,000 emergency vehicles wove through the lines of traffic, with flashing lights and screaming sirens, the prospect of a leisurely dinner on board seemed to be slipping away; unless, that is, we caught the next ferry. The modern love affair with surge pricing, made me weep silent and bitter tears at the prospect.
Luckily, the cosmos was smiling benignly on us. Firstly, the accident had happened just round the bend and secondly (and perhaps more fortuitously for all concerned) only two vehicles were involved and they were both BMWs. In a heart-warming display of public spiritedness, the emergency services bulldozed them both into a conveniently located ravine beside the road, before despatching the survivors in an act of selfless kindness, and before we knew it, we were on our way.
In a warranty invalidating show of bravado, we made up for lost time and, having eschewed a return to the great 2016 Poole Cherbourg Dolphin extravaganza in favour of the slower but infinitely more comfortable Portsmouth St Malo floating buffet, we made it to the ferry port in sufficient time to avoid the need for any chassis bending aquatic leapage.
The Bretagne loaded like a Star Destroyer under a constellation of electric arc light, and as soon as the VW was safely stowed on the car deck, next to something slightly less annoying than last year’s DB5, we made a beeline for the restaurant where the already overtired children were filled with sugar and let loose to terrorise the poor and unsuspecting passengers.
Sophie and Alex careered amongst the stream of endlessly patient catering staff, who only seemed to egg them on. The children’s bulging eyed excitement reached the point of overload when dinner was over and en route to the cabin, they spotted and fearlessly engaged the self-styled Pirate Captain ‘Ventnor Bryan’ and his scurvy crew, extracting a purse of booty for their trouble. In future years thoroughly unprepared members of the stag party are bound to recount the tale of the strangely insistent children who could only be placated by a whip round.
Imagine then, if you will, introducing two four-year-olds to the concept of fold down beds, three decks below the waterline while Roxy Music wafted over the airwaves of Brittany Ferries FM.
It was going to end one of two ways. Either they were both going to spontaneously combust or preferably there was going to be a tearless crash followed rapidly by deep sleep. I can only thank Brittany Ferries that the ship’s gentle roll delivered the latter as we traversed La Manche, leaving chez Carter for the morning delights of chez Chateaubriand.
“8.30 a.m. sailing from Poole to Cherbourg arriving at 12.30 p.m. - saw six dolphins and three sets of waves in the channel going in the opposite direction - very odd. Aston Martin DB5 parked next to us on the car deck - very jealous (not) but much discussion of single male driver”.
The thing that immediately strikes me about reading old diaries is that I shouldn’t.
You might ask whether the same applies to writing new ones.
Last year the beautiful wife, the delightful children, the stalwart friends and a range of inflatable hangers on, made the lengthy and perilous journey from Bristol, England to Ile De Re, France by a combination of car, ferry, grit and determination.
The result was a week of sybaritic bliss on an island retreat one kilometre offshore from La Rochelle in the Charente Maritime.
Had I taken the trouble to write more than three lines in dubious italics about the last year’s identical holiday, I would nonchalantly be able to refer to my earlier comments. Sadly, I didn’t.
Last year, perhaps unwisely with two 3-year-olds and one 45-year-old in tow, the beautiful wife opted for the 15 hour door-to-door scenic route. The redoubtable VW Passatt estate, duly rose to the challenge and delivered us, intact if not actually insane, to the welcoming Airbnb archway of chez Thiery and Catherine Pastor, Loix.
Last year, the journey down was eminently tolerable (with a week of French food, clean beaches and petrol blue skies to look forward to).
Last year, the journey back was arduous to say the least. At least that is what driving from Poole to Bristol at 2.00 a.m. feels like when even intravenous Red Bull can’t keep your eyelids sufficiently open to keep four wheels on the tarmac.
Having learned an important lesson from last year, that over optimism is the preserve of twats, we took a more realistic approach this year and sacrificed early arrival for leisurely travel. After all, how often are we told that it is the journey that counts and not the destination.
We nearly had to make do with the journey rather than the destination when, deep in conversation, we sailed past the Newbury bypass (regarded by some as a quintessential prerequisite to catching a a ferry at Portsmouth) straight into the jaws of traffic hell.
As we sat stationary, anxiously watching the big hand sweep round the clock face, the 45 minute contingency suddenly started to look breathlessly inadequate. As 29,000 emergency vehicles wove through the lines of traffic, with flashing lights and screaming sirens, the prospect of a leisurely dinner on board seemed to be slipping away; unless, that is, we caught the next ferry. The modern love affair with surge pricing, made me weep silent and bitter tears at the prospect.
Luckily, the cosmos was smiling benignly on us. Firstly, the accident had happened just round the bend and secondly (and perhaps more fortuitously for all concerned) only two vehicles were involved and they were both BMWs. In a heart-warming display of public spiritedness, the emergency services bulldozed them both into a conveniently located ravine beside the road, before despatching the survivors in an act of selfless kindness, and before we knew it, we were on our way.
In a warranty invalidating show of bravado, we made up for lost time and, having eschewed a return to the great 2016 Poole Cherbourg Dolphin extravaganza in favour of the slower but infinitely more comfortable Portsmouth St Malo floating buffet, we made it to the ferry port in sufficient time to avoid the need for any chassis bending aquatic leapage.
 |
| Pirate Captain Ventnor Bryan |
The Bretagne loaded like a Star Destroyer under a constellation of electric arc light, and as soon as the VW was safely stowed on the car deck, next to something slightly less annoying than last year’s DB5, we made a beeline for the restaurant where the already overtired children were filled with sugar and let loose to terrorise the poor and unsuspecting passengers.
 |
| Alex and Sophie Searching For Dolphins |
Sophie and Alex careered amongst the stream of endlessly patient catering staff, who only seemed to egg them on. The children’s bulging eyed excitement reached the point of overload when dinner was over and en route to the cabin, they spotted and fearlessly engaged the self-styled Pirate Captain ‘Ventnor Bryan’ and his scurvy crew, extracting a purse of booty for their trouble. In future years thoroughly unprepared members of the stag party are bound to recount the tale of the strangely insistent children who could only be placated by a whip round.
Imagine then, if you will, introducing two four-year-olds to the concept of fold down beds, three decks below the waterline while Roxy Music wafted over the airwaves of Brittany Ferries FM.
It was going to end one of two ways. Either they were both going to spontaneously combust or preferably there was going to be a tearless crash followed rapidly by deep sleep. I can only thank Brittany Ferries that the ship’s gentle roll delivered the latter as we traversed La Manche, leaving chez Carter for the morning delights of chez Chateaubriand.
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