Travel is Such Unsweet Sorrow

this is exactly what the road ahead looked like Photo: Dan Musat, Unsplash

I’ve never minded rain, no really, I haven’t. As long as it’s not accompanied by howling gales, I don’t mind. My husband Mike, on the other hand, thinks he’s soluble and guards against even the finest mizzle. He insists on umbrellas which I hate and refuse to get under on the grounds that if they aren’t poking you in the eye, they’re dripping water down the back of your neck. However, the last few weeks have given me a more jaundiced view of rain, especially when it’s thrown at me, biblical fashion.

We had decided we deserved a holiday and were going through the usual flurry of activity that precedes us flying somewhere, with last minute essential toiletries being stuffed into odd corners of hand luggage, never used once we’re there.

We were going to Sardinia for a week at the end of a busy season. Flying from Bordeaux at 3:30, I insisted we had to leave our Charente home at 11am (in case). We left 13 minutes late and two minutes down the road Mike couldn’t remember if he had brought his phone. I said it didn’t matter as I had my French phone, but then on a cursory glance it wasn’t where I expected it to be, in the central storage between our seats. I turned the car round, and we dashed back to the house. Mike checked his coat and found his phone snugly sleeping in one of the pockets. He ran back to open the shutter and the door and went to look for my phone. In the meantime, on the off chance, I searched down the side of the passenger seat and there was my phone. I ran down the drive in the pouring rain, (did I mention it was chucking it down?) and released the poor man from his frantic search.

Having locked up a second time and by now more than a bit damp, we got on the road again. I set the satnav, (very unreliable on a Toyota). It never seems to recognise any of the destinations I put in. However, it could hardly deny the existence of somewhere as prominent as Bordeaux airport and we proceeded to our nearest town, Chalais. As we left the town, we were dismayed to hear the satnav lady ask us politely to do a U turn when convenient. We equally politely told her not to be so silly and forged ahead in the worsening weather. After a while, we turned her off, dismayed at her lack of geographical awareness.

The rain was unrelenting, and the traffic unusually busy. I was behind heavy lorries with no chance of overtaking. There are no dual carriageways in that very rural part of France, mainly because normally there’s very little traffic, except the odd Ancient of Days in a 2CV doing 30kph, or a burly bloke hurtling towards me in a piece of farm machinery the size of a house.

Eventually got to the A89 toll autoroute, two carriageways, lots of lorries going to Spain and more spray than when your old uncle with false teeth engages you in conversation. We got to the airport easily, it’s well marked. However, the car parking we were booked into wasn’t marked and we drove around in wild circles like one of those remote controlled toy cars that behave dementedly in a five year-old’s hand. We tried the satnav again, but she was nearly in tears demanding that we go home, refusing to believe we needed a car park.

Suddenly my dormant brain cells kicked into action, and I remembered I now have a French phone with roaming, so tapped in the address to find we weren’t far away from the Aquitaine Car Park, which turned out to be rows of bumper-to-bumper parked cars in the pouring rain. After some time, someone appeared and told us which line to join. We got thoroughly soaked carrying our bags to the van which would take us to the airport. My feet were swimming about in flipflops and rain was running down my face from my soaked, and totally unsuitable in the circumstances, hoodie. Never mind, I thought, this ordeal will be over when he drops us at the door of Departures.

Just as we were about to set off, I realised I had left my phone and some paperwork on the dashboard of the car, conveniently placed to catch any potential burglar’s eye. I slithered off to get them while the rain gods unleashed a torrent on me - for their own amusement presumably.

We got to the back of a huge car park and could see the airport buildings several hundred metres away. Surely he couldn’t dropping us here? Mais oui, he said, and you walk to here for collection on your return. Note to self: do not book the cheapest car park at an airport, there’s a reason why it’s cheap. There was a hopelessly inadequate covered walkway, more suited to sunshade than protection from the rain. We trudged up towards where we assumed Departures was, getting more and more waterlogged. Mike kept irritating me by asking if he could pull my case as well as his own. My case wasn’t the problem: he’d have been better asking if he could turn the rain off for me.

We got into some far-flung part of the terminal where at least there was a Ladies toilet. I sludged in there and dried my feet and flipflops. By this time I was soaked through to my holiday tshirt and capri pants but couldn’t change as I had nowhere to put wet clothes.

We had acquired a trolley en route, but all the lifts were ‘hors service’ so we ditched the trolley and dragged our wet cases onto the escalator. We got through the formalities easily as we were early, then sat in the café overlooking the apron, shivering in wet clothes, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches with indeterminate fillings, which were the least offensive part of the day so far. The gin in the duty-free shop was prohibitively expensive, more like a double duty shop, so with no regrets we swerved it.

Not even Bordeaux can look good in this weather. Photo: Guillheme Rossi

The flight was called and Mike offered to fill our water bottle while we waited to board. I got in the queue and shoved the full bottle into my bag. We didn’t drink it on the flight, which was uneventful until the landing. It was tempered by the fact that Italian ladies in front and behind us were on their rosary beads protecting us all flight. The man next to Mike crossed himself and prayed on take-off and landing and I warmed up with prosecco. As we came in to land, I was just commenting that Ryanair do the worst landings ever, when we hit the deck from what seemed like a hundred feet up. Everyone screamed, the rosary beads rattled, and our companion redoubled his efforts on the praying and signs of the cross. No mention of it from the cockpit, just the cheery ‘Welcome to Sardinia’ in three languages, and we were ushered off the aircraft.

As we descended the steps and made our way to the terminal, I could feel something dripping on me from my shoulder bag. One side of me was wet again. It took some seconds to rationalise that it couldn’t possibly be part of the Bordeaux soaking. This was another form of watery assault. Got to Arrivals to find that my bag and its contents were completely boggy. The lid of the water bottle was loose … hats off to the water gods that day. They just have ticked all their boxes.

The bonus when travelling from and to EU Shengan countries is that there is no passport control not even for Brexit losers. We were through in seconds, then on to our taxi and our holiday in sunny Sardinia, but that’s a story for another day.

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I’ve read

Great Circle by Maggie Shipstead. A tome of a book at 580 pages but for the most part I was spell-bound. Maria Graves, aged 14, a semi-orphan, during the prohibition era in Montana, sees a couple of aviators in beat-up old aircraft in her town one day, and knows immediately, that’s what she wants to do with her life. She and her brother, who becomes a painter, are brought up, loosely, by their alcoholic uncle, also a painter. Marian meet a dodgy rich bootlegger who pays for her flying lessons and in turn she marries him, disastrously as it turns out, dear reader.Marian goes on to have amazing adventures in Alaska, in England delivering aircraft in WW2 and then flies around the world over both poles. Then she is lost. It’s a cracking read, even at nearly 600 pages. If the story i’ve outlined isn’t enough, there’s another layer. Another timeline is running with a mixed-up actress, Hadley, hired to play Marian in a film of her round the world voyage. We didn’t need her, the story stands on its own, and I was irritated when we cut back to Hadley, but I would still recommend it as a good read, just be aware of the investment in time needed.

I listened on Audible to

Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner. I’m aware i’m swimming against the tide here because this book is on short lists across the globe, but i’ve still four hours left to listen and i’ve abandoned it, something I rarely do with a book. One of the problems is that it’s read by the author and she reads it in a monotone. The other problem for me is that I couldn’t engage with the central character. She’s an American spy sent to France to undermine an anti-establishment group. I couldn’t keep up with the story, or the characters, so i’ve struck it off, but if you want to try it, maybe try reading not listening.

I listened on Radio4 and BBC Sounds to

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo, played out daily in easily manageable 15 minute chunks over three weeks. Roger Allum is splendid as Jean Valjean, it’s a wonderful production, and you can sing the songs yourself to accompany it. What’s not to like?

I’ve watched

Ludwig BBC1, a hugely enjoyable series. Quick confession - I don’t actually like David Mitchell, or rather I find him irritating usually, but he comes into his own in this programme. The premise is daft but go with it. The wonderful Anna Maxwell Martin, (of her, more later), calls her brother-in-law, a crossword puzzle setter, to take the place of his identical twin brother, a policeman. She wants him to find out why his brother has disappeared, but once in the police station, he is roped into solving crimes, while being getting no further in finding out what happened to his brother.

Showtrial BBC1 Taut, suspenseful and with very plausible characters. I particularly like Adeel Akbar’s portrayal of the shambling lawyer, Sam Malik. His relationship with his son is poignant and must connect his character to thousands of parents of teenagers! Both of the above now available on BBC Iplayer.

I’m watching, (as I write this it’s only halfway through)

Until I Kill You. ITV drama. Four episodes over consecutive nights makes it a must-see for me. It’s so scary wondering where that bloody man is going to jump out from next, I’m spending most of the episode with a cushion in front of my face. Anna Maxwell Martin is superb as Delia, menaced by the boyfriend. It’s a horrible true story and part of AMM’s brilliance is that she’s able to switch from hilarious comedy in Motherland to the hard-faced Patricia Carmichael in Line of Duty to the loving wife in Ludwig and now this. She’s spiky, angry, uncooperative with people who are trying to help her, unlikeable really. it’s a stunning performance and I’m looking forward-ish to the next two episodes, while hoping he’s going to be locked up now so that I can watch the tele, instead of just listening.

My guilty pleasure this week

Pan Am - ITV each episode is 30 minutes long and I’ve binge-watched 14 episodes. Set in 1963, the storylines are totally implausible and the acting is dubious but the women’s fashions are fabulous. Spectacularly glam stewardesses Margaret Robbie and Christina Ricci star and it’s escapism we need more in this miserable November.

Thanks for reading or listening this far. I appreciate you taking the time. See you next month