I’m an all-in kind of a person so recent weeks have been huge fun figuring out what we might need to give us the best possible chance of a memorable holiday for all the right reasons.
I found someone to help with route planning. There are so many ways to break up the journey and we suspected that a little local knowledge would go a long way, or 516 miles to be precise. We topped that up with hints and tips, including from the customer who planted the seed. His generosity and detail were perhaps reflective of a mounting nervousness? We set off this morning with the knowledge of every toilet stop, supermarket, campsite, loch and mountain.
Then came the bits and bobs. How to keep an 8yr and 5 yr old entertained on the long, winding drives (we’ve got local flora and fauna books, mini magnetiles, folding car seat tables, binoculars, you name it). How to give all of us the best chance of any sleep with the late sundown and early rise (we introduced sleeping masks last week and found mini camping pillows). And how to cater for our children’s very particular wants and needs for fun and less fun bits of the holiday; Sophie goes back to school to exams (activity print outs), Fynn has a dairy allergy (oat milk supplies), the French cricket set, the kite…and how to get everyone on walks? That’s called getting Dom a drone for Christmas.
The last few days were meant to be the easy run-in or the ‘taper’, but that never seems to materialise in our lives. Dom was at a conference in Paris and I’d come up with an extensive and last minute to-do list. All was running to plan until about 5:30pm on Thursday. My gorgeous little girl poked her head around our home-office door. “Mummy, so sorry to disturb but Dori [our magical nanny] asked me to let you know that Fynn’s hurt himself”. “As in properly hurt himself?” She was so calm in her delivery that that I couldn’t equate her message with a crisis. “Yes mum, his arm is sore”. Oh crap! Sure enough, when I got downstairs Fynn had that signature carry of his arm that made it appear more than one of his daily, high speed bumps. That would equate because he’d fallen from a ladder in the playground at adult head-height.
I did some quick maths. I was an hour away from being home alone with the children (Dom was due back Friday night, and Dori was leaving at 6:30), I had a busy day planned at work, and of course the big off at 6am on Saturday. It meant one thing, and Dori had concluded similar, a precautionary trip to A&E. Dori and I were an incredible team and packed dinner, a pre-charged battery pack and iPad, Scotland books, snacks, jumpers, charging leads… 6:30pm rolled around to 2am. The calpol masked a fractured elbow and we left St George’s with a cast, sling and strict instructions not to get his arm wet. Bugger.
This bought all-change to our family’s Friday. Fynn at home, none of his jumpers or pyjamas fitting over his arm, Dom flying home early and a truly exhausted and emotional Jones contingent with a day of work and a full night of packing ahead.
And then I got a call.
The women on the end of the phone sounded nervous. And then I came to realise why. The landrover we’d hired, and were due to pick up in 12 or so hours time, had missed its ferry connection back from a Scottish island and was no longer able to meet our flight at Edinburgh airport at 10am. Bollocks. For a small family business this sort of thing could have meaningful consequence and she was determined to minimise. A lesson in great customer service. She’d got 4 people, rather than 1, on site to turn it around. She’d thought of a viable plan b and kept us informed.
Despite her brilliance, it was not without faff for a family team with low reserves. An unwanted schlep into town carrying all of our clobber for lunch. Our tightly planned schedule had just been ripped up. Our lunch reservation at the Fife Arms cancelled. Sigh. I’d booked us a slot at Left Luggage and Dom turned around the energy levels with an ice cream. Fine team work.
We were united with the currently unnamed beast at just after 3. We were on the road just after 4, and out of the supermarket just after 5. WE WERE ON OUR WAY…
…but no longer doing the NC500.
Grim (on tour) up North 