Mo Laethanta Saoire: 'He was the reason my mother said novenas before I left'
Cork author BM Carroll. Picture: Giles Park
As soon as I stepped onto the ferry, I could feel it. The vibration of the engine combined with the gentle slap of water. The combination elicited a response deep in my gut: the promise of motion sickness. Despite the fact that we hadn’t yet pulled up anchor, and that Ringaskiddy Harbour was as calm as it would ever be. Ignoring my gut, I leaned over the railing to wave at my parents. My wave was full of bravado, the sort you get from a laughably inexperienced nineteen-year-old who has a plan to join her college friend in the South of France and only a vague outline of how she will get there.
First this overnight crossing from Ringaskiddy to Le Havre. Then a train to Paris, followed by the TGV to Toulon, followed by a local train to the nearby town of Hyères where – if everything went to the vague plan – my friend Claire and her aunt, also called Claire, would come to pick me up.
