Suzanne Harrington: I’ll enjoy my holiday — even if it kills me
Suzanne Harrington. Pic: Andrew Dunsmore
As Ireland loses its mind over temperatures nudging 30 degrees — Heat surge! Flash drought! Sun bomb! Solar apocalypse! — the south of France shrugs languidly and drawls, “hold my bière”.
While les pale Irelandais are freaking out as we drown ourselves in factor 50, panic-drink water, and make our alabaster children wear rash vests even indoors, the French will soon be abandoning their northern cities and migrating south.
Unstoppable as bison but with rather more sang-froid, they like to choose the hottest time of year to clog all motorways leading to the Med, leaving Paris as deserted as the London of 28 Days Later. Why do they do this?
I don’t know, but every August I join them. And every August presents a new challenge in my mission to reach our beloved campsite on the Côte d’Azur.
Last year, it was the challenge of driving 1,400km alone in a heatwave in an ancient menopausal car, both vehicle and I prone to overheating even in the cool gloom of northern Europe.
This year, the challenge is even more fiendish — will it be possible to get all of my camping gear on a budget airline without the baggage fees costing more than the holiday itself?
Again, I don’t know, but I am going to give it a go. Will a tent fit in the overhead compartment? Can you fold a camping chair into your hand luggage?
Shove a portable gas stove under the seat in front, or are these classified as explosives? Are tent pegs actual weapons?
So many questions, as the departure date looms and the cheap airline rules around baggage allowances continue to swirl mysteriously, more prone to change than the Irish weather.
What you can or cannot bring seems dependent on which airport you’re travelling from, and the mood of the gate-dragon you have to get past before boarding. Are they in bored blind-eye mode, or merciless raptor mode?
Having spent several insomniac 4ams doing mental Tetris packing inside my head — as dull as it sounds — I reluctantly realise I’ll have to do something I’ve never done before. I’ll have to pay for check-in luggage.
Which, in terms of carbon footprint, is nearly worse than flying.
Why, wonders my partner, can’t you just stay in a hotel like a normal person? He is baffled by camping. Why would anyone choose to do it, unless they have been internally displaced by war?
He sees no joy in sleeping under the stars, in a hammock slung between pine trees; in pitching a tent on a hill overlooking the Med, cooking outdoors, washing up outdoors, living outdoors 24/7. As a native of inner city London, he finds it all a bit unnerving.
That’s why he is staying at home when I strike off for the airport, already sweating under the weight of my gear, but full of steely determination.
I’m going to do this. I’m going to have a beautiful trip even if it kills me. So help me, Dieu.
