It’s “Friday Fact or Fiction”, where I write a little something for the weekend for you to read, be it fact or, um, fiction. This week, it’s ‘fact’, with an article I wrote for The Guardian newspaper which was short-listed for their travel writing competition…
It’s all sick bags and champagne on the road to Disneyland, Paris…
Holiday checklist: 4-year old throwing up in a plastic bag whilst sat-navigating the M25? Yup. 4am start? Check. High School Musical soundtrack on loop? Affirmative. We were off – two shattered parents, two non-shattered 6 and 4 year olds- to France chez Eurocamp and a static caravan, a fortnight’s hols stretching ahead of us like a string of garlic. Our destination: 90km from Paris; close enough to Disneyland for the kids, and to the Champagne houses for the grown-ups; far enough away from work (no Blackberry), bad weather (please, no) and, hold your breath, the telly.
There is something quite alien about living in what is essentially an oversized tin can for two weeks. Dishwasher? Nope. Microwave? Ditto. Luxurious bath? Dream on. But with 4 pools to hand, pedalos, lake, kids crèche and, hurrah, babysitting, things began to feel more familiar. Relaxing though was another matter. ‘Are you chilled out yet?’ my husband would ask on our morning meander to the on-site bakery (oh the smell!) for our ‘see-how-much-we-can-eat-this-time’ run to pick up croissants, fresh baguettes, pain au chocolats. ‘I feel sick now.’ Me. ‘Mum’s letting us have chocolate for breakfast!’ Kids. ‘I just can’t relax.’ Husband. And so that night, using the girls’ felt tips, we drew up a timetable – chilling out time included.
After a day’s blissful me-time at the onsite spa (a massage, heaven!), first up on the chart was Paris. We booked a round-trip coach, thus avoiding hubbie driving around the Arc du Triumph swearing at French car-owners. Perfect. Actually, not quite. Because, Paris is, well, quite grown up. ‘It’s all very fancy,’ declared our six-year old, ‘but it’s boring for kids.’ Cue deep breaths. We thought trips on undergrounds would bag it for them, counting steps up the Eifel Tower ditto, but no. Hallelujah that Disneyland Paris was a better hit, the plan to stick to one park and get there early meaning minimum queuing. Phew. The eldest cried on the Small World boats: ‘I’m so happy,’ she sighed, and the Buzz Light Year ride was a family favourite. ‘Shoot Zurg!’ yelled husband. The night parade was stunning, fireworks too. The verdict? Worth it. But, the surprise holiday hit was a tour of the Champagne region. Mummy, as the non-driver, was happy. ‘Moi? Five glasses?’ I protested. ‘You had mine,’ came the reply. Ah. Good point. The kids were wowed by the panoramic grapevine fields; the electric train ride in the Mercier cellars was fun; and – as we’d arrived lunch hour (oops)- in the time we had to wait we found a good, full-of-locals restaurant that served food other than ‘frites’. The only problem? My husband selecting calf’s tongue thinking it might be veal. ‘Oh my god,’ he said half retching. ‘It feels rough!’ I glanced up. He’d gone white.
Mercifully, despite nightmares of bloated tongue, we came back relaxed, void of sickness or M25 traffic jams. Would we go back? Yup. Already booked. Now, where are those felt tips?
Copyright © Nikki Owen 2012
Thanks for reading! In next Friday’s ‘Fact or Fiction’ it’s the first part of my new short-story ‘The Quiet Life of Megan Quinn.’ Have a lovely weekend.
**Look out for my “Media Monday” post on, um, Monday. A short, sharp snippet on the latest writing & publishing news…**