Not so long ago a couple of friends and I had an hilarious afternoon bonding over our shared experiences of family holidays in France. They were so similar, we could've actually gone back in time, swapped vehicles and had the exact same holiday with each other's parents, so below is a fused recollection that some of you other forty -somethings may recognise....

 

The Packing - this divided parents straight down the middle with approaches that were so at odds, it's a wonder we ever pulled out of the drive! The dads were usually leaning over the front seat of the car, carefully placing things into the glove compartment: maps, a neat canvas folder (passports, tickets, car insurance etc) and a strange assortment of coloured sticky tape destined for the headlights...(it was generally viewed as most inconsiderate in the 80s to blind French motorists with a British high beam, but nowadays we don't seem to care). Now, apart from making room for a couple of tennis rackets, the dads simply could not see why anything else was necessary, and they were very mindful of there being enough room for a bountiful stop at the supermarche on the way home. Mums, on the other hand, couldn't really contemplate the end of the holiday as they were being blind-sided by the stresses of it actually starting. Mums were bleach-wielding dervishes, who insisted on cleaning the house from top to bottom on departure day. They'd get all hot and bothered and announce rather forcefully, 'This is the last time you can wee. I'm warning you now. Once I've cleaned that downstairs bathroom, that's it." Despite the French forecast looking decidedly hot and sunny, they'd be huffing and puffing and loading up the boot with cagoules, wellies and in our case one year.....jelly.

Jelly???? Dad nearly lost it. But Mums are nothing if not prepared.

Every year was the same. It was a highly stressful departure. My brother and I were silent, taking cover - quite literally really - as due to the fact that the SUV hadn't been invented yet, we'd sit in the back squashed, a barricade of bags between us. We would then begin round 1 of 'Whose side has the most suitcase on?' There are two main methods of play to this game: Violent, blatant ramming or sneaky, surreptitious nudging while the other one slept. On average, you could expect to play about 187 rounds per trip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Ferry

Once at Dover, we'd join a long line in Mini Metros and try to guess which boat was ours. They were impressive these ferries, huge heavy feats of engineering loudly hooting and honking and capable of welcoming row upon row of cars into their mighty bowels, and all in under half an hour. I always wondered how on earth we didn't sink, especially as it was de rigour back then to leave the bow door open.....for the whole of the crossing!! Good call P n O, fantastic idea you have there Sea France...You can imagine it now...

The Pride of Dover, P n O : See how I can cross this channel whilst seemingly inviting the Atlantic ocean into my lower decks!!

Bonnet de Douche, Sea France: Ah-ha zis is nothing. I too can open ze back passage - pas de probleme!

I mean what nonsense was this?

Unfortunately the sea got its revenge in1987 in the Zeebrugge disaster and bow doors have remained firmly shut ever since. Thank goodness. 

 

The Crossing

I'm not sure whether the sea was particularly choppy in those days or the captain's steering a bit iffy or whether it was the fact that the bow door was open (mmm probably), but something definitely interfered with the ship's balance and it used to sway... a lot. 15 mins upon the ocean waves and Mum would retreat to a cave at one end of middle deck with all the other green people vommitting into white bags. I visited once. Gross. It stank and the people looked like they were being exorcised. Better to stick with Dad.

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He'd be up on top deck, playing our favourite game: 'Spot the desert docs/Jesus sandals' You got one point for spotting them, but two points if the wearer had chosen to pair them with white socks. Hilarious, if a little cruel. Dad was more of a non -money carrying, sporty Dad, most likely found in a pair of tennis shorts, collared T-shirt and Adidas trainers. He might choose to put on a tank top if it was a bit blustery, but in the main he looked match-ready at all times: at parties, washing the car, funerals, his look has rarely changed now he's nearly 80 - think a shorter John McEnroe with similar hair. He would not have been seen dead in a pair of sandals (for women), and it amused him that quite a few of his compatriots would bumble along the deck in this footwear, loudly practising their French. Little did any of us know that this particular look would be incredibly fashionable in 2020. 40 years too early for some of these dads but heh.

 

In addition to a penchant for observational comedy, Dad liked to dance with danger - or in his eyes 'show us that there was nothing to be scared of' (more of this later) One year he encouraged me to fall asleep against him. I think I was 6. He was stood up leaning against a railing from which a 70 foot drop fell into raging Atlantic waters below. I was terrified. I've never understood why there are only railings, even today, just railings with massive gaps between them that a small child could most definitely fit through. Why aren't they solid, preventing people from falling out? Why??? I just don't get it. Anyway..

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Dad: 'What's the matter, you can swim can't you?" Err yes, Dad, one length of Park Road baths - I'm 6! Anyway, when I woke up, I vommed down his Slazenger anorak so that showed him.

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En Route

My parents loved to drive through France. They'd marvel at the scenery, the locals, the flowered roundabouts, study the map in detail, perhaps listen to some French radio. They'd be really very happy, enjoying the welcome break that wide, unpopulated autoroutes provided from the traffic jams on the M62. They were proper francophiles - still are -- totally into Allo Allo and French-themed dinner parties, a bit like Rick Stein before Rick Stein.

My brother and I were less enthusiastic. One, it was cold. They insisted on driving with the windows fully down, thus creating an irritating wind-blast into the back seat. Second, the boredom and bag trench-warfare led to arguing, a lot. This would eventually become so tiresome and loud that it would drive Mum demented and she would try to slap both our legs backwards from the passenger seat. Many an 80s mother has dislocated her shoulder in such a manner, and that's probably why slapping children in this way was banned in the 90s. Well apart from the fact that it was a completely ineffective move that usually led to fit of even more irritating giggles.

For entertainment, without a personal TV, Nintendo Switch or the Internet,  it was the usual: I Spy, 20 questions, singing all our school songs etc but my favourite by far was The Petrol Station Game. As the name suggests, we'd each pick a petrol station: Esso, Shell, Elf, and you got a point if you passed one. It was pretty thrilling I can tell you.

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Eventually we'd stop for the night, but not at a place we'd actually booked. No, no. For some reason this was not the done thing in the 1980s. What you had to do was randomly select a small town, seek out the Tourist Information or Hotel de Ville and in your best O-level French enquire as to whether there was a room to be had for the night. Parents loved doing this. Even more satisfying for them was simply pulling up in a desolate village and asking a doddering, beret-wearing French man in the street if he could recommend un logement.  Sometimes they'd try to get you to do it!! Quelle horreur!! Basically, it was a satirical version of the Nativity and totally bonkers. Brothers and sisters would watch through the car window and after lots of gesticulating, a parent would return thumbs up and pretty damn pleased with themselves for speaking da lingo successfully. Phew. A place to stay - thank God we didn't have to sleep in the car then.

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The hotel would be really old with shutters and lots of stairs to climb. But you couldn't go in straight away. It had to pass the test : did it have clean sheets? Mum didn't care about anything else; she'd sleep in a bunker if it had clean sheets, and this is what she'd check for before we accepted any room from anyone. Once the establishment was declared 'Mum-clean', we could look forward to sharing a double bed, kicking each other under the covers and watching Dad use the bidet!

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In the morning there'd be croissants, French bread, chocolat-chaud, le cafe, encore du cafe........a veritable morning feast in a charming petit cafe in the square perhaps.......well for the parents at least. Us children were to dine in the Mini Metro - well not actually in it of course (no eating in the car!), but we were to wait in the car, playing with the locks until breakfast had finished and our parents would return with a couple of buns from the patisserie. I think breakfast was too expensive for all four of us or simply pointless as Mark had once nearly thrown up at the sight of a Frenchie dipping jam and bread into hot chocolate. We didn't care anyway as eating a mille feuille or coffee eclair every morning for breakfast was a pretty good start to any day in our book.

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Les Toilettes

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I think quite possibly the worst trauma of a childhood journey in France was needing to go the loo. The function of a bidet had nothing on the hole in the ground affair that was where you were meant to make your deposits. When it dawned on me that what looked for all the world like a swimming pool shower was actually a toilet, I could not fathom how on earth you were meant to poo standing up. And quite clearly, given the state of the footwell, neither could the French! I have no idea who on earth made zi toilettes this way or why it was a perfectly acceptable way to relieve yourself for many many years, but a considerable amount of time was spent by many a holidaying Brit trying to find a good old English toilet for their traumatised and constipated children. Not one of your finest inventions Frenchies - best stick to the cheese and wine!

 

Nous sommes arrives!

Most of our time in France was spent at Saint Palais sur Mer - so at the beach. We'd roll out the bamboo mats, plonk the parasol in the sand and that'd be us day after day, watching the Lucky Lucky Man attempt to sell his wares, building sandcastles, playing with French kids and swimming in the sea. We had a large orange dingy at the time with navy blue oars. In another one of his 'Now that's what I call swimming!' collections, Dad had a habit of rowing us a long, long way out to sea in this boat. Out we'd go until the beach was barely visible and we were way beyond the life-guarding area or any reassuring buoys. At this point, he'd insist that we take it in turns to jump out of the boat and swim around it once. What?? La mer was pretty frightening that far out. For one there were loads of jellyfish ("it's just a plastic bag!"It wasn't.) and two, we'd both seen Jaws. Dad would reassure us that we could swim so it was fine and he wasn't wrong, for this little exercise proved that we both could swim, and pretty damn quickly too when pursued by a Man-of-War. One year in Now That's What I Call Swimming 5, he took us to the aptly named 'Point de le Coubre' where the waves were so fierce that you were sucked under and spun around so quickly that you no longer knew which way was up. After spluttering away for a few hours, coming face to face with the prospect of drowning many times, but enjoying it nonetheless, we left, whereupon a local lady informed us that two people had died there last month. Ah.

 

Homesick

After a month or so, it might rain. We'd be in the car, probably post-grotte or cognac museum visit, and Mum would begin to frantically tune in the radio. Crrrr, whirr, squeak, backwards a bit, forwards a little, 2 degrees to the left, 3 to the right, back a smidgeon, then Bingo - the sound of England: The Archers! We were at once silenced under pain of death and had little choice but to listen to the comings and goings of Shulah and Ambridge's antics for the next hour. That said, since it was the only English we'd heard in 4 weeks, apart from each other, it was kind of comforting. It makes me smile now to think of how many British mothers would be tuning in from Normandy to Nice back then, a little bit homesick for Tupperware parties and Terry Wogan, yet smiling triumphantly at the fact they'd packed those cagoules and wondering if it was time for jelly.

 

The Great Escape

Before returning home, there would always be a final pilgrimage to Le Clerc's or Mammouth. These giant supermarkets were called hypermarkets, but really they were Ubermarkets. Indeed, I'm pretty sure if we hadn't kicked the Nazis out of Paris, this particular French export would have been transported to Germany along with all the nabbed Monets and Manets. In short Edouard LeClerc made John Sainsbury look like Pete Beale.

 

Mark and I (now wearing matching clogs and neon fashion bracelets due to acclimatisation) were completely wowed by the amount of stationery, cool posters and mini car collectibles this place had. Toys in a supermarket? Genius! And we'd wander off to see what we could get for 10 francs.

Mum and Dad were equally wowed by the sheer volume of inexpensive, quality wine. Parents everywhere would attempt to get as much Beaujolais and Bordeaux as possible into their cars, which meant strategically positioning bottles in all the footwells, the side doors, wrapped in pillows ,rammed in the boot. It was not easy, and I remember an expensive bottle of red shattering all over a car park once when my essential book 'Horses' dislodged it from the boot. Dad was not happy. Car smelling of charcuterie and brie and probably rattling and clinking under all that quality red, we'd pitch up at the port, ready to take our chances on another Pride of something or other. But you couldn't just drive on. Oh no. First there was ......CUSTOMS.

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Ah merde!

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At this point, voices would fall ominously silent on the approach. Mum would start doing her hair and smiling (only politely) at the police. Dad would appear cool and calm, yet his tapping of the steering wheel and faffing with the heaters suggested otherwise.

'Right kids, look innocent.' they'd say or 'Pretend to be asleep!'

Why? Because everyone knew that sleeping, innocent children were a dead cert in dissuading any French copper from stopping and searching Brits who might be carrying a couple of bottles over the quota. Eager to make up for being fooled by drug-smuggling pregnant women for years on end, the French police or customs officers were extremely thorough and pretty scary. They had dogs, usually Alsations (no doubt with rabies) and guns. They didn't smile and could make or break you with a mere gesture of the hand. Sometimes, they'd do the 'wind the window' down sign and out of a half-closed eye, you'd watch your dad being interrogated by a moustached gendarme like a subtitled version of Juliet Bravo. Were we criminals - how much wine was too much? Like most self-respecting families we had stuck to the limit - more or less - and weren't smuggling French fags or lingerie of whatever else they made better than us. No, it turned out the whole customs nail-biting anguish was simply induced by the prospect of having to pack up the bloody car again!

 

Once through customs though, it was all plain sailing - quite literally. The way back never seemed so choppy somehow, and there was something so delightful about the rows of British number plates and the smell of metal and oil below deck. Dogs would bark (British non-rabied ones) and we might be allowed to have a full English breakfast from the cafe. And English milk!! Ahhh England.

 

After a few hours, the Brits would patriotically gather to watch the white cliffs of Dover come into view before the call to their respective cars came and the honking of the foghorn signalled our arrival back to Blighty. At this point, It would immediately start drizzling. We'd all shiver for the first time in a month. Then it would rain, biblical rain Literally lash it down all the way home, and we'd fall asleep to the sound of the wipers swishing back and forth and the click-click-clicking of the indicators.

 

Until the next year.

 

Happy Days.