Go reader MARY DAVISon a delay that almost ruined a family holiday
THERE IS A strange urge in people that works as follows. You tell them about your holiday plans; they can’t wait to tell you about their holiday disasters. The engine that fell off the plane; the “luxury resort” that turned out to be a building site; the holidaymakers who stayed up all night partying and throwing up in the pool.
“Of course they’re exaggerating,” I said to my husband. We were on our way to the airport for our first sun holiday in 10 years. The last one had been our honeymoon. We were no longer dewy-eyed newly-weds. Instead we looked like an advertisement for contraception, trundling along in a people carrier loaded with babies, buggies, cuddly toys and a supply of factor-50 sun lotion that would last a lifetime – just in case they’d run out of it in the Canary Islands.
The co-parent looked less certain that these horror stories could be put down to exaggeration. It had taken a lot of persuasion – and two spectacularly wet staycations – to persuade him to leave the country en famille, and he still wasn’t convinced.
Still, as the people carrier groaned into the long-term car park and the squealing in the back seats grew louder, the family mood was high. Now that we had made it to the airport in one piece, what else could go wrong?
Quite a lot, actually. The first indications that all might not be plain sailing, or even flying, came at the departure gate, when we realised that our flight was flashing an ominous delayed sign. All around us other flights boarded and departed with blissful ease while ours remained stuck on terra firma.
A variety of rumours and counter rumours flew about the departure lounge. The plane had been grounded; there had been a strike, or maybe a bird strike. A new plane was coming, but not until this evening, or maybe tomorrow morning. The fact that no airline staff were in sight did not inspire confidence. “Probably hiding out somewhere, in case there’s a lynching,” the man beside me muttered darkly.
The flight was supposed to leave at noon. By 7pm the mood was mutinous. Irate parents were bonding furiously over endless cups of coffee. Groups of irate golfer types were threatening litigation. Hyperactive tots were wading through discarded piles of colouring books and crayons. A gang of young gurriers had raided the wheelchair corner and were now engaged in Ben-Hur-style races up and down the corridors. One of the leading charioteers was actually our own firstborn, but at this stage both of his parents were just happy to see him occupied.
The family toddler now decided to join the rising chorus of exhausted, fractious teenies clamouring for home and bed. The bellowing and wailing from the multitude of unhappy small people finally seemed to spur some dark mysterious authority figure somewhere into action. Finally, an announcement. The flight was cancelled and would be rescheduled for early the following morning. Passengers would be accommodated in a Dublin hotel for the night. Anyone who’d like a room should approach the desk.
Within seconds it had been swamped by a mob of thwarted travellers. Rooms were eventually doled out, and the dejected non-flyers made their way out of the airport. By now it was pouring, and the holiday clothes we were standing in offered about as much protection from the rain as toilet paper.
Where the coaches were supposed to be waiting huddled two minuscule minibuses. These were commandeered by the most militant group among us – with all the fervour reserved for the last helicopter out of Hanoi.
The remaining passengers were left standing in the rain with a solitary airline rep for company. There followed a shameful episode that has gone down in family lore as “the time Mammy went mad at the airport girl and they both started roaring”. Not a situation from which either of us could be said to have emerged with dignity.
And so to the hotel, to which we were eventually transported in a ramshackle fleet of “courtesy buses”. Our family room transpired already to have a family in it. Back to reception and another long wait for a room without residents in situ. Up in the lift again and finally into bed for a few hours.
A wake-up call and back to the airport for a rescheduled 6am flight. Another two hours milling about the departure lounge and – finally – the call. Hardly daring to believe our luck, we skipped through the gates and on to the plane . . . and sat on the tarmac for another two hours while mysterious banging noises issued from beneath us.
“Isa flata tyra,” the flight attendant assured us. In an attempt to avert a mutiny she had been instructed to hand out Pringles and muffins. Weren’t we the lucky ones?
Eventually the plane taxied to the runway. Three children behind me and two of my own began to scream in unison. The woman beside me wondered if it wasn’t an omen. “Maybe we should turn back before it’s too late,” she said. I closed my eyes and tried to think comforting thoughts. Planes flying, not tumbling out of the sky, sandy beaches, warm sunshine. With luck it would all be worth it. Because now, more than ever, I really needed a holiday.
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