France
.
Well, not the whole country, I suppose. Just the bit we went to. Some shitty campsite in the south.

Getting there was most definitely not half the fun. Not in this case. Four people, two weeks' luggage (including food) in a Ford Cortina Estate. One of the four people (big brother) gets car-sick. Very car-sick.

By the time we got to Dover, I'd had enough and wanted to go home. No dice. The ferry was fun for me and dad, but poor mum spent the entire time holding my brother's head as we realised he got sea-sick too. Very sea-sick.

Having driven most of the length of Britain, we set off to drive most of the length of France. Mum had only just passed her test, but insisted on sharing the driving. We ended up so lost that at one point we were heading back north again. We got to the campsite at stupid o'clock in the morning, and found our "luxury" tent by torchlight.

The next day dawned, a Sunday, and we were up bright and early. Brother and I headed straight for the swimming pool, only to find the French kids from the local village had got there first. And they weren't sharing. We got ducked repeatedly until we gave in and trudged back to the tent. We moped about a bit, then were loaded into the car to go for a drive. Yes, just after driving halfway across Europe, my brother puking all the way, mum and dad decide to go for a drive. Yay us.

The days took on a sort of inevitability. Get up early, go to the pool, get half drowned by obnoxious French kids, go back to the tent, get into the car, drive around, stop for a puke-break, look around yet another wee village, back to the campsite for dinner. Rinse and repeat. Until the start of the second week.

Some new people had arrived on the Sunday, and they had kids our ages! Yeehah. Someone to play with (no, not that way). All was well until their mum started handing round lunch. She included my brother and I, giving us each a big bowl of some odd-looking stuff. I dug right in, thinking "Mmmm, never had this before. Wonder what it is?" It was prawn cocktail, and that, dear reader, was when we discovered that I am allergic to shellfish. Oops.

I spent the next 48 hours in a strange little clinic, run by French nurses with not a word of English between them. The doctor spoke some English but I only saw him for about five minutes, while he injected me with adrenalin (there was something else as well, but I don't remember). My parents weren't allowed to stay, and had to stick rigidly to visiting times. By the time they were ready to let me go, I was about ready to dig my way out with a spoon.

The only upside was when we got back to the campsite. All the British campers got together and threw a little party. At the pool. Faced with a mob, the French kids buggered off home. I was a minor celebrity, having been carted off in an ambulance, and was the centre of attention. I enjoyed that party.

My memories of France, then? The smell of Calais harbour (not nice). The smell of my brother puking (not nice). The smell of the mangy old tent we were sleeping in (not nice). The attitude of the local French to the British visitors (not nice).

It was our first ever trip abroad, and our last for several more years. We looked forward to it for months. We hated it.

Sorry France. It's not personal. But I'm never coming back (as they heave a sigh of relief).
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 26 Jun 2008, 18:22, 1 reply)

Well
there you have it
never go to france.
the countries allright just the people are absolute nobjockies, they duck you and halfdrown you for being british yet if you were german they'd run a mile flying the white flat.
(Freddles, Sun 29 Jun 2008, 0:45, closed)