Rory FitzgeraldFamily vacation reflections
The sea-crossing is as magical now as it was when we were chlidren. The last time my brother, cousin and I were on board the boat to France together it was 1986 and we were kids ourselves. Now, here we were with our own broods, watching them scamper around on deck as Ireland became a hazy line on the horizon. As the workaday world receded, the delights of France grew nearer, as did a fortnight free of work and worries.
Ever the nostalgic, I tell the kids of their seafaring heritage: of my time as a yacht skipper and how their grandad was a merchant navy officer and their great-grandfather was in the Royal Navy, on the Arctic Convoys during the Second World War, while more distant generations still were fishermen.
They listened patiently, before saying that they would prefer a story about squirrels and dashing off to the soft play area. Brittany Ferries' Pont Aven is about as far from the Arctic Convoys as itís possible to get ñ boasting glass elevators, a swimming pool and a great setup for families, including kids discos, childrenís entertainers and free balloons.
The weather was also far from arctic, as the sun beat down cheerfully, promising languid continental days ahead.
Enjoying the moment
Arriving in Roscoff at dawn, I witnessed in our children the same sense of wonder at arriving on distant shores as I had experienced as a child. I vividly reccall sitting awestruck in the back seat, feeling like Christopher Colombus going ashore in a strange and startling new world.
Within a couple of days, we were merrily ensconced in our little family-run campsite in the Vendee. We settled into a pleasant new routine, involving a slow breakfast of crossaints and jam followed by a happy round of visits to the swimming pool, beach and playground rounded off by wine on the verandah in the quiet evening, as the children slept. The kids, all first and second cousins, became fast friends within days. The gang was the undisputed masters of the baby pool.
With two of the womenfolk pregnant, the gang also looked set to increase in the near future. Even amid the joyful prospect of new life, time can seem cruelly swift: it was only moments ago that we were the children, rushing about carefree with all our lives ahead of us. Now we have taken up the happy, yet often gruelling, task of raising a new generation who, no doubt, will be sitting bewildered on a campsite in France in about 30 years' time wondering just where those 30 years went.
Time is like the weather. You can complain about it; you can even lament it, but you cannot change it. You can only change how you think of it.
Therefore, the wisest course of action is to embrace its passange and the new joys each stage in life brings.
What better way, than to witness the joy of a perfect summer's day in the eyes of your own children? And what better way to time its relentless passage than to savour each moment, to deeply drink each mouthful of life's wine, and to listen closely to each lingering swoosh as the sea laps gently upon the shore.