As described in “A year on: Part 1 – Still scarred, Ryannair!” I have travelled by air reasonably extensively over the past 40 years, but the combined efforts of French Air Traffic Control, Ryannair, idiot drivers on the M11 and the French A7, French children’s sport promoters, weather forecasters, Marseilles Provence Airport (mp2) and UK Border Agency have enrolled me into the Grumpy Old Man Brigade!
The delayed Ryannair flight described earlier was uneventful and we descended to the small runway at Toulon Hyeres, taxied to the quaint terminal building and walked out into the warm sunshine. Queueless, we waited for our distinctive cases to arrive on the belt, expecting my Son to be waiting outside.
“Touriste!” A familiar voice bellowed in my ear. My French brother-in-law had sauntered into the baggage hall to greet us. “So, I thought maybe we have drink in Carquieranne?”
At this particular moment in time, having already missed a day in the sun, courtesy of his countrymen, I was more interested in getting to the hotel and grabbing what little there was left, than quaffing drinks in a bar by a quaint French harbour. But it seemed churlish to refuse. I looked at my Fiancée and my daughter, who had just arrived with buggy and kids, and all exchanged ‘we can’t refuse’ looks. When my son, who had driven the mini-bus from Aix, arrived, more exchanging of ‘we can’t refuse’ looks, and we bundled our baggage into the 9 seater Fiat to follow the fast driving small Peugeot to Le Pub in Carquieranne.
I have to say, Le Pub was not a bad experience and, at last, we had a chance to relax for a while, without the bustle of planes, queues and lugging bags around. The kids could let off steam and we could all contemplate a pleasurable wedding. A drink, a chat, a walk along the quayside, and we were ready to depart to our much awaited hotel near Aix-en-Provence. And when we arrived all looked wonderful – except!
The room that my Fiancée and I were allocated had probably been a horse or cow stable before conversion into something that resembled … a horse or cow stable! I didn’t even like to contemplate that it might have been occupied by pigs or chickens. A small double bed, with little room to manoeuvre round, was squeezed against the far wall from the door. The door itself was unable to open to it’s full extent, and a small window looked out onto an internal courtyard; a courtyard that we were to later discover would be occupied by overspill from the restaurant. Ventilation would be achieved by leaving the window open and partially opening the wooden shutters, insecurely securing them with a rudimentary hasp. I didn’t even look at the small, sunless ensuite bathroom. What I had already seen was enough, as the room wasn’t even minimally sufficient to attempt to persuade my Fiancée that it might not be too bad; something I usually try to do, much to her annoyance.
A quick visit to Reception and an odd Franglais discussion enabled us to be given a palatial room on the first floor, overlooking the main road outside, but at least somewhere that was likely to provide a good sleep. The bathroom, though not separated from the bedroom by a door, included a large walk-in shower and its own window. Positive luxury compared to the outhouse.
We settled in and all met for dinner, nice and early, to give us a chance of sleeping off the rigours of our protracted journey. However, although we were the first to arrive in the restaurant, inexperienced waiters, slow kitchen service and multiple muddled orders transpired to elongate our meal to one of those three hour sojourns that the French are so fond of. A child’s desert even arrived at the table long after the child had retired to bed, exhausted. The waiter deliberately avoided eye contact in order to be unaware of the problem, which of course was denied when we tried to complain. With a typical Gallic shrug, and an explanation that the waiter was new, it was all put down to one of those things, and would we like complimentary drinks. When we got to the bar, that too appeared to be a misunderstanding and the bar staff (who of course didn’t speak English) attempted to charge for the alcoholic beverages. She obviously hadn’t heard of my tenacity in extracting complimentary drinks from wayward hostelries. The manager, who appeared to be little more than 12 years old, was called and persuaded to provide the expected level of customer service – and so to bed.
I really should have realised, when researching the hotel, that if I could see the bedroom windows from the Google Streetview App, it was a sure fire certainty that I would be able to hear the street (Google or otherwise) from the bedroom window. However, as we grabbed a reasonable amount of shuteye, we contemplated that it was infinitely better than sleeping in the cow shed! Morning arrived, and we trooped down to the Restaurant, for a breakfast that was somewhat better than the previous night’s dinner. The main reason for this was the self service nature of the meal. Any comment regarding what we were and weren’t allowed to eat was met with the reverse of last night’s responses – “Sorry, we don’t speak French.”
To avoid my son having to drive the mini-bus for the rest of our stay in Aix, it was decided that one of us would register as an additional driver. My daughter announced that she wouldn’t be drinking anyway so … “OMG. I should have realised when you didn’t drink at your cousin’s wedding last week!” Thus forthcoming new grandchild was let out of the bag.
It wouldn’t take too long to pop over to Aix International Rail Station, come back and enjoy an al fresco picnic and dress for the afternoon’s wedding, would it? Based on the delays that had already beset us, that question was not as rhetorical as it sounded. Waiting in line behind people who needed a dictionary and translator to perform the simplest of tasks, people who were far more important and only wanted to change their inappropriate car and people who simply thought booking their car was the opportunity to haggle for everything, was not a pleasant experience. “Bossy Boots” and fast growing teenage four year old were getting restless in the rapidly overheating mini-bus, and the adults even more so. To then be told that we could have registered quicker elsewhere did not make the experience any better. So a rush back to the hotel via a conveniently located Lidl that was having an inconvenient delivery blocking the car park, a rushed al fresco picnic by the tempting but out of bounds pool and a hasty getting dressed led to a breakneck drive to the Hotel de Ville. But we all made it, not in time to sit down anywhere and only just before the bride arrived, but we made it.
Standing through the ceremony, listening to the Mayor making, what we assumed were, jokes while still trying to catch our breath was an experience in itself. At least we had a chance to slow down after the previous 48 hours mayhem, and the smiles on the happy couple’s faces brought smiles, again, to ours. Many photos later, and we were off to the religious part of the wedding.
“There’s just a slight problem,” my sister said as we made our way to the cars. Had French Road Traffic Control come out in sympathy with their air colleagues? The French usually have a habit of ganging up on us poor English. No, it seemed that the car park closest to the Temple we were supposed to attend was closed, due to the local sports committee taking over the roads for a kids’ marathon race, and the nearest car park was a significant walk away. This was not good news, as my Fiancée had been suffering severe pain for a few months when walking, pain that has only now, a year later, been corrected by minor (HA!) surgery on the hallux. In order to find the car park, my son had to drive the mini-bus at breakneck speed, again, to keep up with my brother-in-law’s ‘continental driving’ of an ever so slightly smaller Peugeot. When we got to the designated car park, he disappeared down the car park ramp, while we removed the aerial and slowly negotiated the low headroom and tight corners, down and down, until we arrived at what might have accommodated our mini-bus. Where now? No sister, no brother-in-law, only an expensively charging roaming signal on my smart phone’s SatNav App. Off we set, with “Bossy Boots”, teenage four year old and hobbling Fiancée in tow. Eventually, we made it, past the marathon kids, thanking them so much for adding to the hectic enjoyment of our trip, past the shoe shops that we picked out for the return visit and past the car park that we should have used.
This time, we managed to sit down and enjoy a slightly more relaxed ceremony. Given that the officiator was American and a large proportion of the congregation was English, I wondered why the whole ceremony was conducted in French (including the jokes), but that didn’t lessen the joy of the occasion. So now, back to the mini-bus via a shoe shop, for some comfortable slip-ons, a street café for drinks and a supermarket for snacks. Then a leisurely drive to the reception venue – a bit too leisurely, as we missed the official family photographs. However, an afternoon of bucket loads of champagne and delicious canapés softened the blow. As the afternoon merged into the evening, the wedding breakfast was served, the reminiscences of the happy couple’s school and university friends were performed and the cool French night descended. The children were absolutely exhausted, so we returned to our hotel for the last night before taking my son and daughter-in-law to Marseille, to continue their holiday there and in Paris, and the mini-bus to the car-hire company to pick up two smaller cars for our holidays in Frejus and Port Grimaud the next morning.
At last we would all be able to relax in the sun for the rest of the week, free of the delays and bustle of the previous few days. That is until the unforcast rain came on the first day and the unforcast wind for most of the rest of the week! However, we all managed to get a bit of sun and sand, the latter blown into our nooks and crannies by the Mistral.
When it came to returning, the relatively early flight meant very early departures from Frejus and Port Grimaud. Fortunately my Daughter had left early enough to avoid the delays caused by a French driver entering the A7 and bouncing down the road into the central barrier. We were not so lucky, and arrived at MarseilleProvence2 (quaintly termed mp2) departure lounge just in time for check-in. We shouldn’t have worried, as check-in in the budget airline shed – there was nothing quaint or loungey about it, it was just the old terminal with a make-under – was a very leisurely affair. I realise that budget airline passengers are the scum of the earth, but I’ve never before had to weigh in my luggage, hoist it off the scales, wheel it round the corner and hoist it again on to the conveyor belt. I was fully expecting to have to remove it at the other end and carry it all up into the plane’s hold, like the coach trips that haunted my childhood. But no, I was spared that particular chore. Having followed the inadequate signs to the departure gate, turned back and walked on a parallel route on the other side of some cattle fencing, we eventually arrived at the head of the mis-titled ‘Speedy Boarding’ queue. Eventually, speedy boarders boarded and so began the free-for-all of the non-speedy boarders, of which my daughter, son-in-law and children were but four, and were almost crushed in the stampede.
Up in the air, we passed over the mountains, which, a year later, were to claim the lives of the occupants of the German Wings flight, and eventually made our uneventful descent. It had been a while since I’d arrived as an international traveller in Stansted, and I wasn’t expecting the upgraded security of the UK Border Agency. We were herded along decreasing width corridors to an escalator that was frequently closed off, due to the density of the queues upstairs. We had become separated from the family, who were now trailing some way behind us. But when they got to the escalator, my son-in law and walking child were forbidden to use the lift that my daughter and buggy-riding granddaughter were ushered into on the grounds that they didn’t need this ‘precious’ resource. Inevitably when they got up to the severely overcrowded UK Border Agency, they were separated from each other and ourselves. It took something like an hour to get through the procedure set up to ensure no foreign miscreants snuck in to steal our jobs, benefits and hospital beds. Why are obviously resident English people put through such misery to get back into their homeland? It never used to be like that – oh dear I’m sounding like my late Father now.
Against the background of our previous delays, the journey from the airport home was stress free, and we breathed again like human beings rather than fare-paying livestock. But I know that I’ll never fly Ryannair again, and probably never fly international back to Stansted!
Tim Oakley 