Suzanne Harrington: Between budget airlines and staycationing, there's a third way - slow travel

Suzanne Harrington. Pic: Andrew Hasson

It’s time of year when, having spent three days squashing a fortnight’s worth of stuff into a too-small case, you inject yourself with horse tranquiliser so that you can deal with whatever air travel will throw at you. Because you haven’t even left the house yet and it’s already taking aim.

Even if your flight isn’t cancelled or your destination isn’t on fire, the range of irksome possibilities remains (sky) high. Air traffic controllers somewhere obscure yet important going on strike; your bag being too heavy, so you’re forced to unpack it by a dominatrix in a hi-vis tabard as fellow passengers pitilessly scramble over you; your random allocated seating allocating you between a stag party and a raging toddler.

Budget air travel has sent us feral. It’s dog eat economy dog.

Of course you could just not go. By all means do staycationing, if you like rain and everything being overpriced yet familiar, everyone looking and sounding just like you, and an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu. 

It may not feel like a holiday at all, but at least nobody will be elbowing you in the face at speedy boarding, or harassing you because your luggage is 3mm too wide. No threat of scratchcards or paninis either. But do you really want to spend your holidays in a caravan in Leitrim?

Between budget airlines and staycationing there is a third way. Slow travel, where you rock up, roll on, roll off, drive away, stop, mooch, start again, stop again, have another mooch, stay over if you like the look of a place, keep going if you don’t. 

Slow boats and quiet roads, where you set your satnav to avoid the crowds, and meander towards your destination as languidly as if you really had injected yourself with horse tranquiliser.

Tomorrow I am driving to Provence in an elderly Peugeot. There are no luggage restrictions — books, shoes, hats, my favourite sun lounger, a selection of parasols, the kitchen sink. All comfortably packed. Liquids! Litres and litres of liquids, unrestricted. 

Pootling across the sea, then an unhurried drive, watching the landscape slowly change from the grey industrial north to Van Gogh’s sunflowers via prehistoric plateaus where dinosaurs once pottered, equally unhurried. Carefully avoiding Paris and all its hectic sportiness, or anywhere else there may be hectic anything.

Pitching a tent under trees overlooking the Med, unfolding the sun lounger, planting the parasol, filling the ice box with ice. And then — not much. A lot of lying around, beach by day, hammock by night, with old friends. No jet-skis or nightclubs, glamour or glitz.

Just being outdoors for a fortnight until it’s time to drive north again, a different route this time, stopping in tiny places famous for their chestnut puree or lavender honey or terrifyingly alcoholic liqueur made from twigs; France never gets old. You can never get lost, because it’s all part of the trip. 

Just remember — if you’re doing it with kids, pack extra horse tranquiliser.