The rejected travel advice

Once the dreaded lockdown ended, going abroad was no longer at the top of my bucket list. I had enjoyed everyone’s pictures of their local Ireland on Facebook and longed to visit every single place.

When the ban was lifted on 1 July 2020, staying in a hotel with hundreds of others no longer felt appealing. A large Weinberg motorhome was hired at a high cost from a lesser-known rental company; everything had increased in price after lockdown. Businesses felt they had to recoup three months of lost income by permanently increasing prices by 100%.

Once the home on wheels was excitedly packed with everyone’s clothes, food and, of course, technology, one Mammy and three boys headed off on the adventure of a lifetime. We were not booking into any campsite and mingling with hundreds of people. We were going wild camping.

If you think this is a good idea, it is — if you're alone or travelling with cooperative humans. Teenagers and pre-teens are not cooperative. Perhaps not even human.

Driving the four-berth vehicle felt like trying to herd a swarm of cats. Every road had height, width or tonnage restrictions. Being dyslexic meant calculations often went wrong, much to the laughter of the young passengers. It took a lot of learning as I crawled along the M7, so far under the speed limit that I was certain the Curragh Gardaí would pull me over for “jay-driving”, as my kids jokingly called my chauffeuring.

We parked in Askeaton, Limerick, with a river view and a swimming pool to enjoy after a fry-up on the motorhome’s gas cooker. At this stage, only the teenager was moany, and we were dropping him off at the Gaeltacht that day, so there were no worries.

Stuck in this small space with a teenager was not fun.

The second night we enjoyed the hospitality of Dingle’s car park and a delicious scampi and chips. A quick walk around the harbour and village followed, but there was no hanging around because Tralee’s Aquadome was calling. It did not disappoint. We had a blast on the slides and floated merrily along the lazy river. The wave pool managed to destress all nerves sparked by the now-departed teenager.

Night three was peace personified after I turned off the Ring of Kerry onto a nearly dirt road and prayed fervently until we reached a stunning white sandy beach. To this day, I do not know where we stayed, as there was no internet and no signs to guide us.

I said “peace”, and it was — until bedtime, when we discovered we had no charge in any technology and no way to charge anything. The teenager had taken all our power banks, and there was nowhere to hook the motorhome up for electricity. Still, there were no complaints as the boys splashed late into the night and again early the next morning in the teal and white foamed waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

Toasting waffles and marshmallows helped, too. Who does not love the light-brown, slightly crispy outer layer and the soft, gooey inside of a large marshmallow?

A little friend joined us for a swim.

The next morning, I noticed the fridge was warming slightly, so I drove to Dan Murphy’s Bar in Sneem and booked into the campsite, to the delight of two boys suffering from technology withdrawal. I emptied the toilet cassette because I was not certain whether the lingering stench was its perfumed odour or the pre-teens’ overactive hormones.

After an excellent meal in the bar, I needed a night off from camp cooking for children. We enjoyed the bar’s Charles de Gaulle memorial and took a walk around Sneem. Unfortunately, after a quick picture with the late John Egan, our walk ended within ten minutes, having exhausted all the sites suitable for children. I loved The Way the Fairies Went and The Pyramids, and the eight-year-old skipped around happily. The twelve-year-old pre-teen only wanted his new phone to play Minecraft.

Waking the next day, we were torn between going inland to Killarney National Park or continuing along the coast to Cork. Every night since that morning, I wake in a cold sweat with my teeth grinding.

I should have gone inland.

I made the biggest driving mistake of my life. I turned right after Kenmare, and the Ring of Beara kidnapped us. The only road in Ireland that does not display warnings for height, width and tonnage. I have never prayed more in my life, and I have been on a plane that nearly needed a crash landing.

The only way I can describe The Ring of Beara from inside a motorhome is that it felt like what I imagine being taken by the fairies would be like. It was as if we were transported to another world. Tall hedges boxed us into a narrow lane. Animals appeared out of nowhere, hopping and skipping in front of the unexpected vehicle, stunning both them and me. There were no humans. There was nowhere to turn around. The experience seemed endless.

Then suddenly we came out the other side, and I nearly cried with relief as I swallowed lungfuls of good Cork oxygen. Had I held my breath the entire time?

Our fifth night was in magical Kenmare as rain and waves lashed the shore and a wild wind rocked everyone to sleep — only to be woken every few minutes by the caterwauling of drunken young ones. There was even loud smooching up against our temporary home. The poor couple nearly knocked themselves out when a window suddenly opened, and their heads were banged together. I still laugh at their faces, barely visible in the hazy streetlight through the downpour. Isn't true passionate love a wonderful protection from pneumonia after a proper Irish soaking?

Rough winds awaken the senses.

The change in weather was the last straw for the pre-teen, and he kicked off so badly that we had to go home. The rental company were amazed when I returned their vehicle a day early. You would know the man had no children. Or he had never been foolish enough to try renting a motorhome and sharing an enclosed space with a pre-teen.

Insult turned to injury when the rental man tried to suggest we had damaged the motorhome. The poor man was sorry he had picked on the Mammy of a pre-teen. I waved the photo of the damage I had taken when collecting the vehicle, which included their yard in the background and the date showing it had been taken the day we left their depot.

I eventually got my €600 deposit back from the disgruntled business owner. He suggested it was an innocent mistake by the company, as the damage had not been very obvious and had likely been overlooked after its previous rental. I was glad I had researched renting and had listened to others’ complaints about being scammed. The company promised they were not out to scam anyone.

Every member of my family swore we would never step foot in a rolling home again.

Unbeknownst to myself and the youngest child, the motorhome bug had infiltrated. The two of us decided to try again and chose a more well-known rental company with great reviews. The only motorhome available when our last-minute plan was implemented was an even larger, five-berth, empty tin can.

Why do I use such a connotation?

It was February, and a gale was blowing in from the Irish Sea, prompting an orange weather warning for drivers. We were trying to drive from Dublin towards Northern Ireland as the wind caught the driver’s side of the vehicle’s cab overhang, shaking us into the hard shoulder of the M1 without warning. Lorries swerved in front of us, narrowly missing impact more than once.

When we could take no more of the driving adventure, we pulled into Newry and parked against the cathedral wall, in front of a sign that read “No overnight parking”.

I lay on the shaking bed, daring an imaginary PSNI constable to try to move this monstrosity of a motorhome. We eventually fell asleep and were convinced the van had moved in the gale — or, more likely, that my parking skills were horrendous as the van was sticking out onto the road.

We moved on early in case the good-looking constable in my mind’s eye materialised into a real-life heartthrob brandishing a parking fine.

We spent the second, slightly calmer, night in Newtownabbey and were warmly welcomed by the locals. They did, however, cover their mouths after chatting with us, and we were certain we heard one whisper, “Crazy Dublin fools to be camping in this weather with wee ones.” He was getting no arguments from me — not because he was a six-foot, broad-shouldered rugby type, but because he was one hundred per cent right.

The ‘wee one’ wanted to visit the Titanic museum. After a lot of stress and a chat with a constable not nearly as handsome as my imagined one two nights earlier, I managed to park the huge 7.5-metre motorhome in a six-metre parking space — my one and only claim to fame as an excellent woman driver.

No sooner had we left the discomfort of the increasingly smelly motorhome than the rain fell in an unexpected torrent, and we dashed for the overhang in the Titanic Quarter. We were drenched and shivering as we wandered through the Titanic experience, trying to be thankful we were not quite as cold as the poor souls who had endured the horrific ordeal of a sinking ‘unsinkable’ ship.

Too cold to drive or think straight, we defied more warning signs and stayed the night in the car park, which was ironically quiet. The wind lifting and dropping sheets of loose corrugated iron in the vehicle wasteland behind us was the only interruption to our otherwise peaceful slumber.

After breakfast the next morning, we headed back towards Dublin, intending to stop overnight at the only Irish campsite claiming to remain open all year round.

When we arrived, as the local church bells rang six, its gates were padlocked, and nobody answered the phone.

We were stranded with a full, stinking toilet cassette, a warm fridge that had drained its leisure battery, and no charge in any of our technology.

We drove to Rush only to find the beach car park barricaded and roadside parking full. Driving towards Dublin with a heavy heart and assaulted nostrils, Malahide Estuary eventually made us welcome.

We collapsed into a sleeping coma until the joggers’ early-morning wake-up call as they greeted each other with loud “Howya”, “Cold one,” and my favourite alarm, “See you tonight for a few swift ones.” As a non-runner, I often wonder if people who quit drinking would still run around in circles.

We dropped the offending motorhome back at Dublin Airport, and the staff were so helpful about the ‘toilet issue.’ They did not even look for a bump or scratch.

I thought they had registered the trauma radiating from my entire body until I heard: “Would you like to pre-book a summer rental with a ten per cent discount as a returning customer?” I looked at the man as if he were the Devil and answered, “We will never rent a motorhome again.”

I was true to my word.

We never did.

Instead, I bought myself a three-berth, six-metre Weinberg Carabus campervan, which solved all my height, width and tonnage worries.

My pride and joy.

The rest, as they say, is making history.