Getting There: The Airport Blues

In our house, a summer holiday – in fact, any holiday – is well hyped and used endlessly as bribery. Weeks, months even, in advance, bedtime star-charts for new swimsuits and summer dresses adorn our fridge, and tales of the adventures to come when days are spent at the beach or swimming in the pool send our five-year-old daughter Phoebe off to sleep with hope in her wintered heart.

And so it was this year as we all eagerly awaited our two weeks in Crete, when the sun would surely shine and the months of frantic work by my husband and me would finally be rewarded with some rest and a return to the elements. We booked a villa close to the old harbour town of Rethymno and got a good deal on flights. Oh, this endless grey Manchester sky, the eternal drizzle! To escape and get browned and clear-eyed, to have salt-caked skin. The house looked delightful in the internet pics, with a pool with a sectioned-off part for the kids, bougainvilleas on the trellis, lounge chairs for sunset vinos…

Phoebe was in charge of packing swimwear and beach toys both for herself and for her younger brother River – which she insisted on doing, in her state of heightened anticipation, four days before we flew. She also packed her carry-on Eeyore bag with toys, carefully choosing a mix of ponies and fluffies, some felt-tip pens and her butterfly diary. How many more sleeps till we get on the aeroplane? was her mantra; the aeroplane journey in itself was a thing of intense excitement. She loves flying – the little packets of things, the headphones, the window shutter that slides up and down, the compact toilet with creams and gadgets, the buttons and the attentive ladies who come when you press them.

The big day arrives and the whole house is packed down: the fridge emptied of perishables, the auto-timers for the lights checked, fresh sheets on the bed, the washing done and put away, the indoor plants watered. Our neighbour drives us to the airport – a thing he does for the whole street it seems.

“Right” he says when we are all strapped in. “Now, here’s the drill. Got your tickets?”

“Yep.”

“Got the passports?”

“Check.”

“House is locked?”

“Yep.”

“Got everything you need?”

“Yes!”

“OK, let’s go then.”

It’s quaint the way the old fret about things, I think, as he finally starts to drive.

We make it in good time and don’t have to wait long to check in. Phoebe and River sit on the counter, nattering away, nearly there, nearly there…

A strange and ominous look comes across the check-in guy’s face. He holds up Phoebe’s passport: “This passport’s a month out of date,” he says stonily.

My husband turns grey, his jaw working in an effort not to scream or cry or maybe unravel right there in the queue and howl. Ever the optimist, I start some kind of internal prayer: it’s going to be ok, we’ll get on anyway. But after the matter has been checked with the Crete immigration service, the answer comes back ‘No’.

Silently we re-load our bags on the trolley. Phoebe sits atop them like some dethroned queen on a final tour, tears trickling from her eyes, disbelieving, watching the other kids with their wheelie bags and big smiles, breaking my heart with her sad yet stoic face. River simply trots along, oblivious, doubly breaking my heart with his sweet trust, his small hand nestled in mine, perhaps wondering if all that talk of aeroplanes was just about this, this trip to see them through the glass.

Right! I think. We must get there and as soon as we can, and I begin the frenetic calls to the travel company, the car-hire people and the Australian consulate (Phoebe was born in Oz), my mobile burning my ear. Then we climb grumpily into a taxi and go home to an empty fridge and another trip to Tesco.

Not only does a new passport need a new photo, but we have to get it authorised by two people who have known Phoebe for more two years – one a doctor or some other official type (it says teacher but when I ring the school they curtly reply that they don’t do passports). In addition, pages and pages of paperwork need to be filled out on-line and printed. Our printer has run out of black ink and I have to print it in pink, and I panic that this won’t be acceptable and wrote over it all in a black pen, as my husband paces around the kitchen trying to rustle up some dinner, placating the children.

Two days later, after making one trip to London and spending a total of £600 on train fares, fast-track passport fees and flight re-jigs, we are on the plane. We’re shattered but relieved – and determined that this holiday will be enjoyed no matter what.

And it is.

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