Exodus with Cats

Five Countries, Three People, Two Cats:

August 2016

After three wonderful years in Italy it was time to head back to Ireland. We had fallen in love with our cute little car and since the roads are as narrow in Ireland as they are in Italy, we decided to take the car home with us. Initially, we thought we’d fly with the cats first to spare them the journey, but the rules of the world were not in our favour. Airlines will only take pets via expensive third party courier companies and only on certain flights and from certain airports. The cost, the location of the airport, and the day and time of those flights did not work for us. We had assumed that as the pets had been chipped, had valid European passports, and had received their rabie shots, health checks and de-worming in the regulated time frame that it would be a simple process to book them onto a commercial airplane. That’s how it works for the majority of EU states. But Ireland is different. It follows the UK’s cautious extra layer of protection. No rabies in the British Isles. They want to keep it that way and the airlines want to outsource the management and responsibility.

Allora, It would be a cramped journey, but we vowed to make it memorable.

Day One

On our departure day things happened as they do…lots of things, and our schedule for midday was seriously delayed. The weather was humid and in the 30s and we were hot and sticky as we pushed ourselves into the little car. We got on the road heading out of Varese around 6pm. We said ‘arrivederci’ to Italia, with streaming eyes, and hit the Alps, driving through scenic Switzerland at dusk, slowly ascending the twisty roads up the mountain with the cats complaining bitterly. But the weather was agreeable, and the traffic calm. It was a good start and the conditions had not changed when we entered the 17km Goothard Tunnel.

As we travelled north, concealed deep inside the mountain, a storm had been brewing outside. We left the tunnel and arrived into heavy rain, persistent lightning and thunder, and an endless series of orange caution cones directing us down temporary narrow diversions. The easy classical music we’d been listening to morphed into eerie polka tunes –inescapable as it was on all the stations (I kid you not). The conditions were challenging and I was at the wheel with shoulders hunched up to the ceiling of the car, and eyes squinting at the lights from other vehicles wishing that it wasn’t pitch black outside. I don’t think I dropped my shoulders until we passed Basel, and I knew we were leaving the more treacherous part of the Alps. I let out a long breath and accepted a note of praise from my partner (something my driving doesn’t usually garner but I suppose he was glad it was me at the wheel and not himself).

The weather cleared a bit and the stations began to play soothing jazz just as we approached the French border. We were given a warm reception on account of the cats and the gorgeous sleeping teen in the backseat and passed through without having to show any documentation. We were now on the A35—a friendly, straightforward motorway with good signage. My partner took over so I could settle my rattled nerves and within a few hours we reached our pet friendly, funky hotel at the tail end of the runway of a private airport.

It was very dark outside and the hotel was behind a private gate of which we waited for the receptionist on ‘night duty’ to open. The parking lot was full and the walk to the entrance seemed to be as long as the drive had been. Plus it was quiet. That kind of eerie silence that makes one feel suspicious. I kept forgetting that it was after midnight now and that it should be quiet.

As it was my first pet friendly hotel, I’d been expecting some extra rules or an increased security deposit, but the receptionist just gave us the keys and told us where to find breakfast

The room was clean, colourful and comfortable. We let the cats out and set up their kitty litter. They explored every inch and then wasted no time staking their territory on the beds–spread eagle, diagonal. We were too exhausted to be emotional about our exodus from Italia and pushed in around the cats, falling into a deep sleep that was repeatedly interrupted by the cats either chasing each other around or screaming to get out. Fortunately, I managed to get a solid five hours.

Day Two

After a delicious breakfast, we packed up the cats and the car and headed off on the second leg. For the majority of the day, we kept on the motorway, driving northwest through France, only pausing for petrol and stretches at rest stops, which were plentiful and offered clean toilets and signs with information about the region’s history.

The day was dominated with ease and flow, except for one rather embarrassing episode:

Some toll stations exist to merely take a ticket—this marks where you are getting on the motorway. I had been asleep and not aware we’d gone through one. Sometime later, my husband and I switched places and he nodded off. Several hours passed and I approached a toll station. I didn’t see a ticket and firmly believed that we hadn’t received one when we paid the last toll. I looked around the messy, road trip car and came up short. I woke my husband and he mumbled something about how we didn’t have one.

I had to hit the call bottom and answered the reply in Italian, forgetting we were in France. I then noticed a button for help in English and a polite male voice with a thick French accent and an excellent command of English answered the call. The conversation went like this:

ME: We did not get a ticket anywhere.

HIM: Yes. You cannot be on the motorway without it.

ME: We don’t have one.

HIM: You have to have a ticket.

ME: But we never went through a station to get one.

HIM: Yes. You had to have gone through one.

ME: I don’t have the ticket. I’m sorry.

HIM: Okay. Then you pay the maximum. That is what you must do. I reset it now for you.

I exhaled, happy to be getting on our way.

HIM: Do you see it now. You can pay with a credit card.

I looked up at the display and didn’t feel so happy anymore. It was 75 euro.

Gulping, I looked down at the console that we always kept the tickets in. There was something there I hadn’t seen before. Or perhaps, I had dismissed it as an old parking ticket. My husband was more awake now and picked it up the second I spotted it. It had all suddenly come back to him. “Here, try this.”

ME: We found a ticket. I think we have found the right ticket.

HIM: Oh….so now you have the ticket. Okay, I’ll clear the meter. Now you put the ticket in.

I did and 15 euro popped up in the display.

HIM: That is better now, isn’t it?

He was speaking to me not in a condescending voice suggesting that I had been hoping to get away with paying my toll, but rather with a sense of humour that suggested this little scene played out many times on any given day.

I paid the payment and we rolled out of there with our proverbial tails tucked up under the car.

A couple of hours later, as the sun was descending, we approached the coast and headed to Wissant, a tiny town–fringed by holiday home estates that looked far more like the UK and Ireland than France. The streets were quiet as we followed the sat nav’s directions to the hotel and pulled up into its parking lot that was along a river and full of trees.

We sort of fell out of the car, cracking muscles and stretching limps and feeling that sense of everything still being in motion.

The hotel was an old villa built in the 1930s and judging by the look of it, the furniture and wallpaper were original. Although there were a few pieces that looked like they’d be reupholstered in the 70s with faux burgundy leather.

Nobody spoke English but we managed to find somebody to check us in. We had to scramble up four flights of steep stairs and down a narrow hallway to get to our room. We had to do this three times, as we didn’t want to leave anything valuable in the car.

The cats did their usual tour around the room, after using the kitty litter trays we set up. They had done much better in the car throughout the day and had that relieved presence about them as if they were delighted the trip had not resulted in another jab from the vet—previously the only reason they ever went in the car. They did seem a bit confused as to why their garden wasn’t out the window and despite the heat, we had to keep the windows closed as there were no screens and we didn’t want them escaping onto the roof.

The room was twee with worn green carpet and faded flowery prints everywhere. The beds were squeaky but the covers were so starched that we felt reassured they must be clean. We didn’t have any time to freshen up. We were too hungry and the dining room closed at 8pm. It was 7:45 by this time so we hustled down with growling tummies.

The dining room had a few customers and a set menu. The food was fresh but hardly what I would be familiar with in France. It was presented like the dishes in my mother’s really old cookbooks, printed in the 1950s.

We ate quietly and slowly and then trailed up to the room, washing and falling into the bed shortly after. It was hard to believe that we were spending our last night on mainland Europe as residents. It was an emotional note and a desperately tired one that I drifted off to sleep to.

But it was short lived. All, I can say is I was relieved that my son sleeps through anything and missed the show!

Day Three

It started a little after midnight. The hotel was built in 1934 and would serve perfectly for the setting of an Agatha Christie story or whimsical French boudoir comedy. The flowery walls were paper thin and we could hear quite the bedroom romp taking place in the room next door, complete with the sharp snap of whips, the rattle of handcuffs, and corresponding sound effects—giggles, ouches and other noises we leave to your imagination! No wonder the cats were restless. They meowed and attacked our feet and run around, scratching at the door and the windows. As soon as we’d get them quiet, the couple next door started up again and when they had, seemingly collapsed in exhaustion, the cats resumed their own night play. It was one set of noisy commotion after another. I finally fished out my headphones and drowned out the sound to John Barry’s Out of Africa—my sleep jam for decades.

In the morning, we left before the staff was on duty. We crept out, begrudgingly passing the room of our frisky neighbours. I wanted to do something akin to doorbell ditch a few times. But we couldn’t risk a delay. We had to get to Calais and catch the Chunnel Train.

Thankfully there was no traffic and no hold-ups. Upon arrival, we went to the pet center where Fluffy and Maku cleared the animal immigration check. We then drove through our own immigration point and had a fun chat with the officers there. Of course, there was a camera on us and they were waiting for their face recognition software to clear us. Once again, we passed without any problem. We were then directed to Waiting Area K and told to park and watch the displays. It was like an airport, sort of. There were large displays broadcasting the wait time for the various trains. We had enough time to get some breakfast and got our first Starbucks in ages. When I first moved to Italy, I missed large coffees like crazy but after three years, I had become accustomed to the simple and elegant café (espresso), the cost of which is regulated in Italy to one euro. These large concoctions at Starbucks had cost over five euro each and were not as good as I remembered.

When our train was called, we followed the lane we’d been told to stay in up through another quick ticket check point and drove onto the Chunnel Train. In all the years I’ve been traveling, I had not done this yet and I was very excited. I was also impressed by how organized it was. Once inside, we were told we could walk around. I wanted to stay with the cats as there was a small tourist bus behind us and its passengers were very interested in looking in at Fluffy and Maku.

The journey under the seabed was—well uneventful (don’t know what we expected—no Jules Verne story here). Twenty-five minutes later, the drive around London delivered the much-anticipated snail’s pace. I like how the traffic updates on the BBC radio use the hour hand reference to describe where the congestion is on the big wheel that is the M25 ring road: “Heavy between 10 and 11 o’clock and also at 17:00, 22:00.”

We mastered driving on the wrong side of the road with a left hand steering wheel instantly, probably because the slow flow made for a good trial run. We had vegetarian Cornish pasties at the only 20-minute stop we could afford and loaded up on much-missed crisps (cheese and onion) and chocolate buttons.

Maku seduced us to letting him out of his box and rode on the parcel shelf of the boot, charming folks in cars to let us weave into their lanes. The M1 was good for the most part until we got up North and hit molasses (metaphorically speaking), moving only nine Kilometers in one hour, counting all those residual Brexit “vote leave” signs stuck in the ground. I must say thanks to the UK for its polite driving manners!

Everybody seemed to be going to Wales for the weekend—apparently that’s a thing! We got stuck in that exodus traffic until we hit Anglesey Island. It was tranquil and scenic up there but we had to pedal to the metal to make the ferry heading to Dublin.

And we did after nine and a half hours of hard driving!

We drove onto the ferry and placed our disgusted kitties in the cattery, which was just a small hallway with a row of crates. While we were getting them sorted, a stag party of about eight gigantic lads came frolicking around (already two sheets to the wind) trying to stuff each other into the dog kennels. Apparently, it was the funniest thing in the world but we were too tired to be charitably minded and merely scowled at them while waiting for them to finish so we could calm the cats. Fortunately, the hallway was locked so nobody could bother them during the journey.

Even though the crossing was only three and a half hours, my husband had wisely booked a cabin and that’s all I can say about the ferry because I went straight to sleep until the announcement woke me that we were pulling into Dublin Bay. I started guzzling diet coke, as I only ever do when desperate to stay awake.

My husband got us out of Dublin, his boyhood home, and onto the motorway heading towards Limerick. But by this time, we could only drive in 20-minute intervals because sleep was a persistent mistress and our eyes were refusing to stay open. We even considered letting our 13 year old do a stint but decided we’d been through too much to temp jail. Finally at 3:30am, we reached Doolin in County Clare and fell into the warm, comfy beds of my husband’s loving parents who had kindly been waiting up for us.

It just may have been the first time I was asleep before my head hit the pillow!