on the road less travelled in Ireland and france

After a year of planning, #dublintodijon gets underway. The journey of 18,000km starts with a luggage re-pack and a good long shower. There are still hurdles to jump before Fran and Conal can start their European adventure.

By Conal Healy

Sunday, October 8, 2023: This is the day. We leave for Europe this afternoon. This is the of a 48-day adventure that will take us across the world to Ireland and then to France.

This is a trip my partner, Fran, and I, have been planning for over 12 months. We have named the adventure Dublin to Dijon, but it is much more than just those two destinations. Much more.

This morning we do a final pack of our luggage and tidy the house. We want to come home to a clean house. That will be in seven weeks. The house is dusted. Floors vacuumed. Lunch is eaten.

In my travel journal I write: “There is still a sense of unreality about this trip. I can’t believe this is happening. I am not excited. This will be an adventure. This will be fun. There will be great photos. It will be amazing.

“I am just not feeling it this morning. There is a curious sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. It could be anxiety? I seem to endure these feelings every time I go to Ireland. Equally it could just be hunger? ”

***

Channeling the Beastie Boys, I realise there are No Sleeps til Dublin. Fran is re-packing her carry-on luggage. “You know I will get to Europe, decide I hate all my clothes and buy news outfits?” Fran tells me. I reply: “Haven’t I being saying that for the past 12 months?”

I have a shower and wonder if this would the last decent shower this side of November 23? (Aussies do great bathrooms, hot water and lots of it.)

I dress in my flight clothes – layers, comfortable and overlapping.
Fran showers. Changes into her flight clothes – basic black.
By 1.30pm, the suitcases are in the car and we are off to the Gold Coast airport.

Keenly aware of our carry-on constraints we slip some items into our suit cases (from our carry-on). Carry on can only be 8kgs, our cases check in at 14kg and 17kgs respectively (we have 23kgs).

We say goodbye to the luggage at Baggage Drop – the next time we will see them will be in Dublin. Hopefully.

We check in, clear security and head for the Departure Gate. Almost immediately we discover the flight to Sydney has been delayed by 90 minutes. We are not concerned, we have a five hour wait in Sydney.

Our itinerary has us flying to Sydney and catching a flight to Doha then to Dublin.

Fran buys her airport book – The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. Within minutes Fran is deep in the read, and seeing people who were getting angry: There was the woman who Fran bumped accidently but who kept glaring at Fran angrily, then there was the airport luggage handler who we could see throw luggage into the plane we were about to board. Should we be angry at the woman? Angry at the luggage handler? No, why waste the energy?

It’s a short one-hour flight to Sydney. We transfer from Domestic to the International terminal. Clear security.

We found our departure gate, got some (expensive) food and drink some deliciously cold Peroni beer. It feels like the holiday has started.

TROUBLE AHEAD

The flight to Doha is called. We went to queue up. I held our place in the long snaking line, while Fran slipped away to the nearest toilet to put on her compression socks for the 14-hour flight.

She returned to the long queue, I had shuffled forward about one metre in the time she was away.

Then I went to change into my compressions socks and quickly realized putting on over-the-knee stocking in a small public toilet was going to be a challenge. I succeeded.

I came back to the queue … but there was no sign of Fran or our carry-on luggage. I recognized the the family groups who had been in front and behind us … but no Fran. Where could she have gone?

I started to look around, the long queue snaked forward. Then I spotted Fran desperately waving at me from a desk at the front of the boarding gate.

There had been a stuff-up. While I wrestled with my compressions stocking, sorry socks, I had missed the airport announcement calling my name. Fran’s name was also called, she slipped out of the queue to talk to the airline crew at the desk.

The boarding passes we had been given at Coolangatta Airport were no longer valid. New boarding passes would have to be issued. Not really a drama, except about a dozen other passengers were in the same boat. And time was running out.

And there was only one airline staff member trying to sort the mess out. To complicate matters, two elderly and angry America tourists had joined our throng of passengers on hold.

The airline was trying to ensure all our boarding passes were genuine, and that one of us wasn’t a terrorist trying to slip aboard. The angry American couple were livid. They were demanding action, attention and to be allowed to board the flight. Their luggage, it seemed, was still on another plane, somewhere.

They didn’t react well when told that their original boarding passes weren’t valid for the flight they had just arrived on.

“How did you even get on board that flight?” they were asked. It was all very suspicious. A second airline crew member came and moved the angry Americans away from the desk.

Fran and I waited patiently, smiling. We had the invalid boarding passes, we had passports, we had printed emails about the Doha flight.

We were the real deal.

As the American ranted and demanded, our new boarding passes to Doha and onto Dublin were issued and were ushered down the airgate to the aircraft … the shouts of the Angry American Tourists fading with every step.

Dublin here we come.