The path to Llacas

The path to Dublin

Up at 5am, in the car at 6 and on our way as dawn breaks over the New Forest. On schedule as we accelerate onto the M4, enjoying the sunshine and the excitement of our latest adventure. Traffic gets heavier as we approach our junction – and my eyes constantly watch the seemingly increasing speed that the minutes are passing on the dashboard clock.

Eventually we crawl off the motorway. I’m trying to watch the cars in front, as well as following the directions, as he gets car sick when he tries to read in motion. Or apparently, at any time that I am driving. Get to the roundabout, see the name of the road we want and zoom off. Only the road we want goes in two directions on either side of the roundabout, and guess what? Sod’s Law dictates that we actually need to go the other way. He notices that I have chosen the wrong signpost to follow, but in his state of nausea has decided to let me work that out for myself. Wisely he also chooses to wait to tell me that until I am sat in a bar that evening with a drink in my hand….

After a mile and a half of Indian supermarkets and cut-price car dealerships when it should be airport parking I realise we are heading into central London. Pull up sharpish, 8-point turn (very small road) and foot down again. Back to the roundabout, try another direction (he is still keeping quiet about the road sign that is now waving at me to indicate the right way, but that my fog of panic about missing the plane is obscuring) – huge dual carriageway that obviously (now that I am on it) doesn’t go where we want it to. Thank goodness for mobiles…screech to a halt down a side road – looking green, he gets out to escape the car (and, I suspect my gritted teeth swearing) for a moment whilst I ring the parking company. I smack the steering wheel rhythmically with my forehead when I’m put on hold for 3 minutes whilst they attempt to figure out where the stupid cow that can’t read a simple map is.

20 minutes later we have negotiated the return journey on the dual carriageway, (only 2 red lights jumped, my personal best) gone the right way off the roundabout that I am now pledging I will never drive over again, and are handing over the car keys to the false smile of an overmade up receptionist. The minibus drops us outside Terminal 1, and the driver wishes us a good trip. We both snort sarcastically.

Not the greatest start to my ‘I’m treating you to a weekend away darling’ surprise, but we are here now. We check in, race to find out what gate we are departing from – and then try to laugh ironically when we realised the flight has been delayed for 2 hours…

posted by Liberty Slutzski @ 12:38 am