Second childhood...
We were reasonably broke as kids, holidays were always in a car to a wet camp site somewhere.

Packing enough stuff for a family of four into a Datsun Sunny was no mean feat. De rigour was sitting on pillows and sleeping bags, a tent as a foot rest. Cans of beans strategically tucked into walking boots. Holes drilled in tooth brushes to lighten the load. Carrimats flapping in the breeze like flags on derby day.

Squished. Hot (pre a/c) and fractious.
On one memorable holiday, after enduring four days of solid rain in a (small) tent in Inverness, we mutinied. Drove to sunny Exeter in a day, 12hrs solid.

Car ordeals in our family, in short, have a bit of previous.

How nice then, as the 'rents reach their dotage, to be able to recreate those nostalgic halcyon days of yore, courtesy of Ryan air and Italian air traffic control.

We'd just bought an old pile in rural Italy, and had inherited some bookings from the previous owner. The place needed a lot of love, and, specifically, duvets, sheets, pillows, guests arriving the following week (fuck) with nothing to sleep on.

My wife was out there already, a couple of days previously I'd got a text message from her which just said "Car in ditch, stuffed". Rather ominous. She was out there early with her ma (who gets vertigo if she looks up too quickly), and her dad (who's a mason).

Our parents had not met up to this point, neither set at were at our wedding, (hey we recognise car crashes when we see them) my dad being to the left of ghandi and hers to the right of ghengis, sparks were bound to fly.
[Whilst we were protesting outside sellafield, he was helping build it]

Her mum in this instance had to crawl up a 1 in 3 hill on her hands and knees (she's 74) to get home, they got a tractor to pull the car out of the ditch, not before the tow rope had sprung loose and broken a helpful 4x4 driver's window. All boding well for a splendid convivial vacation.

I'd raided IKEA, packed with military precision (14.9kg per bag etc) and was heading down there with my parents and my son..flight was Stansted-Ancona. Well early start from home(4am), checked in, got to the gate....flight cancelled.

Massive bunfight as everone rushes to rebook cos the next flight..is the next day. Alternatives? A flight to Rome in 7 hrs time...and an novel five hour drive the other end...I got the last car for rent in Rome, we had to get there.

We all ran the gamut of emotional responses that journey, high points included having to be escorted out of a village by a local after spending half an hour in their hilarious one way system, then taking the 'short cut' which was hair pinned to fuck for two hours - ok in the day, a nightmare at night (we landed in Rome at 8pm).

Finally got to the house at 1am, 21hrs after we'd set off, stressed to fuck, with my dad vowing never to get in car with me again (following the forgetting to put the handbrake on and car rolling with my nipper in it incident and another couple of minor 'lapses of judgement').

My parents met my wife's parents over breakfast for ten mins before they had to leave, they were catching the flight home.
My dad then proceeded to have cardiac arrythmia leading to a mild stroke whilst building a bbq, and my mum burst into tears when she woke up the next morning, jealous of what we had bought.

Other than that.. it was a breeze.

Length? Have you ever spent seven hours at Stansted?
(Countryslicker, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 16:44, Reply)