Rory FitzgeraldSeán said it was going to be “the biggest adventure he had ever been on ever in the whole world”. We were in sudden need of a second car and Seán’s granddad kindly offered us an old Land Rover he had. The only catch, if there can be a catch to such a generous offer, was that he and the jeep both live deep in the German Black Forest, near the Swiss border.
We needed to get the car home before school started so there was no time to waste. One-way flights to Switzerland were hastily booked and soon Seán was packing his little rucksack, while I tried to cram his booster seat into my bag.
Buses, trains and planes took us to Basel airport. In that futuristic place, we were whisked along by automatic trains that moo like a cow when you’ve arrived – Swiss technology and humour in one seamless package.
We spent a magical couple of days seeing the Black Forest, catching up with family and preparing the somewhat elderly jeep for the trip home. Seán was fascinated by his granddad’s rambling old farmhouse, built in the traditional German way with barn and house all under one giant, pine-framed roof.
We left reluctantly early one morning. The thrum of a solid old diesel engine pushed us down craggy valleys toward the Swiss motorways, which sped us into France. We drove north into the Vosges mountains and onto the plains of the Champagne region. All the way, Seán sat happily in the front seat, looking out in amazement as the continent of Europe gently passed by. We talked about everything and nothing.
Fatigue was setting in as we approached the valley of the Somme. I had recently researched a relative who had fought there in the First World War, only to die of his wounds at home in West Cork in 1918, just five days before the war ended.
I felt drawn to pull over and seek lodgings for the night. We stopped by a poignant war memorial with views over once lethal battlefields, now peaceful farms. We came upon a small village where a lovely elderly couple ran a charming little bed and breakfast. They welcomed us like family.
Their village had been overrun four times in both world wars, they said. The old lady remembered hiding with her family in nearby caves as a girl. Despite such sad echoes of the past, we slept peacefully.
The next morning our journey continued. My lovable little travelling companion babbled merrily about everything under the sun. In his entertaining five-year-old mind, reality and imagination are not quite distinguishable. As we drove along, he peered avidly though a pair of binoculars that his grandfather had given him.
Through these he saw many amazing things, including a rhinoceros. “Wow, that’s literally incredible,” I said.
As we approached the ferry it was time to stock up with the traditional French supplies: vinegar, jam, mustards – and perhaps just a bottle or two of wine. Okay, boxes of the stuff. I discovered that the French find it hilarious if, when you guiltily approach the till with 100 bottles of wine, you say by way of explanation “j’ai soif” (I am thirsty). It worked so well I tried it again as the grim faced customs officer opened my boot to check for migrants, to discover only boxes of booze. “J’ai soif aussi” he smiled, amid the unsmiling razor wire of the port – recently fortified as the refugee crisis unfolded across Europe.
As we trundled onto the ferry, the first hint of autumn was on the breeze. It had been a magical few days of simply sitting about and talking on trains, planes, ferries and cars as we lazily traversed Europe. We sailed home together, happy.