Take off for far horizons plotted from under cover of the duvet
THE mere thought of climbing the steps up to an aeroplane gives me an ache in the sinus. Or a pain in the back. Or, at the very least, a feeling of dull discomfort in the stomach. But being married to someone whose idea of bed-time reading is the Aer Ryan web-site means that the threat of a trip is constant. The prospect of a dash to the airport to take advantage of a last-minute bargain fare is perpetual. An invitation to Bratislava, Bordeaux or the Balearics is forever in the offing.
‘Did you know that we can get to Florence for a fiver? All we have to do is be prepared to travel at 4 a.m. on Tuesday.’ ‘Wonderful, darling. A fiver.’
‘Medders, stop snoring. It says here that we can get to Warsaw for €15 if we travel via Newcastle.’
‘Newcastle. Great.’
‘That’s Newcastle-on-Tyne, of course, not the air strip in County Wicklow. Ho, ho!’
‘Tyne, yeah. Fab.’
‘Medders, stop dribbling on your pillow and listen to me. Are you working next Thursday or can we make the 6.30 out of Cork for Berlin?’
I am listening. Of course, I am listening. I cannot help but listen as timetables for budget airlines are recited into my ear at close quarters with an air of revelation. The time was when other excited murmurings used to caress the same ear but now I find myself receiving information on the new service between Shannon and some place on the Baltic that I have never previously heard tell of. And at the same time, I am marshalling in my dozy head all the reasons why air travel gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Reason one – the waiting time. The airlines want us to report for duty two hours before the announced time of departure. Given that Our Town is a two hour drive from Dublin, this means that even a midday take-off requires an early alarm call. Up at 6 a.m. for last minute packing and delivery of The Pooch to the friend who has so generously agreed to put up with his treacherous and smelly ways for four days. Departure at 8 a.m. on the public bus. Arrival at the airport a smidgeon after 10 a.m. after a delay caused by the break-down of a lorry in the Port Tunnel. This is pure stress – until it emerges that the plane came to Ireland the long way round in order to avoid turbulence over the Bay of Biscay, so it will not now be ready to sweep us off to foreign parts until 1 p.m., if we are lucky.
Reason two – the yukky departure times. Of course, Hermione and I almost never find ourselves on a midday flight. We bargain hunters invariably find ourselves with the alarm set for ungodly early hours of the morning, staggering around blearily and tossing a coin to decide who will have the unwelcome privilege of driving The Jalopy through the darkness to Dublin in the absence of any suitable bus service. We arrive in Terminal One a smidgeon after the planned 4 a.m. having wasted ten minutes scraping frost off the car’s windscreen. This is a recipe for utter anxiety until we learn that our flight is delayed while the airline arranges someone to scrape frost off the plane’s windscreen.
Reason three – the 21 degrees centigrade. Pass through the automatic doors and into the departure area you have entered a climate which is totally artificial. International airports and airlines are under orders to provide a uniform temperature, so that travellers are sealed off from the real world outside. That temperature must be the same whether in Dublin or Dubai, Vladivostok or Venice, in the terminals, in the boarding areas, aboard the planes. All the air conditioning brings out the worst in my sinus and means that I generally at our destination arrive gently weeping, with a sodden hankie pressed to my dripping nose.
There are plenty of other reasons. Exclusion from executive lounges. The long walk to boarding gates. The lack of leg-room. And here’s the clincher – the damage being done to our climate…
‘Medders, are you still awake? Please come with me to Barcelona. They do paella in Barcelona. And tapas.’
Paella? Tapas? Yum. Feck the planet. Let’s go.