08.14.07

Flying

Posted in Feminism, Sunday Times Columns at 4:25 pm by Sarah

The aforemention column in which I diss Michael. Although, not as badly as in the print edition where they took out my more robust, em, observations. (deletions in italics) I rather liked my more colourful expressions.

When the Shannon-Heathrow story loses its wings, news editors can always fall back on the bread and butter page-fillers of Ryanair customers frequently abandoned by the sadistic airline. Its latest victims were 47 youngsters from Mervue United Soccer Club who turned up two minutes late to check-in for their Ryanair flight from Stansted to Dublin last Monday.

The young lads were delayed because their previous Ryanair flight from Arhus in Denmark where they had been playing in a soccer tournament was five hours late. Naturally the airline’s fault in the delay held no sway and with no other flight available the boys and their management embarked on a 22 hour journey by coach and ferry back to Ireland.
That left forty seven fares, taxes, charges, credit card fees and pounds of flesh for the bulging Ryanair coffers. The picture in Michael O’Leary’s Mullingar attic must be a putrid looking specimen at this stage. Since O’Leary makes it quite clear that he values the excrement of his Aberdeen Angus cattle more than the good will of his customers I suppose anyone who flies with the supposedly low-cost, couldn’t-care-less airline is asking for trouble.

Of course, flying with any airline has turned into an expedition worthy of Captain Scott. Travellers arriving at Dublin Airport on any given morning must wonder if the 5 minute warning has just been sounded and they are witnessing the mass evacuation of the country. I know the weather hasn’t been great, but you have to wonder about the masochistic tendencies of families who voluntarily enlist for a travelling experience that will rip out their souls and test their physical endurance to the limit. Those soccer-playing youths had stamina on their side. What about the families who queue in their thousands in Dublin Airport in a manic bid to get some sun? I’m ashamed to say my familiarity with their predicament is based on actual experience.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy but figured that this year would be different. This year we’d found the right resort and the flight was shorter. Normal people go on sun holidays so why not us?

My presumption that most people must be normal was the fundamental flaw in my thesis. An awful lot of apparently sentient beings may take small children on planes but they are definitely not normal. They are stark raving mad.

Forget about the actual flight. The first thing you have to do is actually get to Dublin Airport. People from the West may be dreading the trek to Dublin to get Heathrow flights, but they’ll have to leave their homes just a little bit earlier than someone from Dun Laoighre or Dundalk. There are three options for travellers : drive oneself, take a taxi or get the bus. Since each of those journeys will involve the M50 you need to leave about three days in advance just in case someone sneezes while paying their toll thus causing a 40km tailback.

We ruled out the bus as we figured the attempt to control two toddlers without car seats would see the first fight take place before we even got to the airport.

Driving our own car seemed the obvious option but we’d end up parking in Ballymun in a 50 acre field recently surfaced with moonrock. Then we’d trip over the uneven surface while running for a bus anyway to take us up to the terminal. If we managed to remember where the car was on return, we’d still have to hand over the price of a half leg and bikini wax plus eyebrow shape in parking charges.

For the price of the wax plus a facial, we could get a taxi, but this apparently stress-free if expensive option grows legs as it moves from conception to implementation. I found a local hackney who agreed to come to the house the night before our trip to collect the big bags and install the car seats. That left the problem of how to get home. Fortunately my mother who is clearly getting senile in her old age offered to meet us and the children only got sick once on the way back.

After weeks of planning and negotiating, we finally arrived at the airport having allowed ourselves three hours to achieve check-in and get past security. There are so many people that attempting to even join the check-in queue is a significant feat. Still, I pride myself on my planning and used the queuing time to change the boys out of their pyjamas and feed them breakfast.

Check-in accomplished we headed for security. The ridiculous restrictions on liquids do nothing to prevent terrorism but we’re too busy decanting moisturiser into transparent 50ml bottles to question the pointlessness of the rules. Honestly, that Nivea could still be nitro-glycerine and who could tell? Someone somewhere must be making money out of the silliness.

Armed with snacks and toys we gradually made our way onto the plane. The usual scene of screaming toddler took place about 20 minutes into the flight. It only lasted for 15 minutes which was long enough to make me cry when the captain wouldn’t switch off the seat belt sign despite the protests of my two year old. I wept once more while waiting in the scorching sun for the rental car in Nice. We’d left the house at 4am and arrived in St. Tropez at about 3pm with just one driving row behind us. That was a pretty successful journey in our books. Then we did it all again 12 days later on the way back. Trying to manoeuvre a trolley while holding onto a child as we headed for another queue, I swore it would be the last time. Holidays shouldn’t be so much work

Then last week I read that the ferry business is booming. The boys from Mervue took the coach and ferry option under duress, but air travel is now so arduous that many families see the boat as the easier option.

Whatever time is lost on the slow pace of the water is gained by simply firing the contents of your house into the boot of the car instead of spending days precision packing in order to meet airline baggage restrictions. Ferry converts claim the slower pace allowed them to wind down. Spared the endurance sport of tackling an airport, the parents were happier and the children were thrilled to run around on the big boat instead of being strapped into crowded planes.

I found the perfect solution though. Thanks to an extended family willing to baby-sit, hubby and I headed back to Nice last weekend for a mini-break sans enfants. Travelling alone was so luxurious that the holiday started the minute we climbed aboard the Citylink bus. With our carry-on luggage and Aer Lingus automatic check-in, we sailed through the airport. The secret to stress-free travelling with children? Leave them at home.

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