Julie Jay: Road trip trauma means we might stay for good

We had a bit of a trek this week as the four of us trotted off to Castlebar for some gigs and a holiday in the green fields of Mayo. We had a lovely time, but I will have PTSD from the journey for years to come.

Travelling four and a half hours from Dingle to Mayo with two kids and a man whose idea of a holiday soundtrack consists of Radiohead on repeat may sound like a good time, but don’t be fooled. The journey was so arduous that we really should have been met in Castlebar with T-shirts that read ‘I survived the Toyota Avensis’, much like you receive upon the completion of a Hell and Back or a two-day hen.

Coming up to the trip, I was increasingly nervous about travelling as a foursome because, though we have trundled off to grandparents, we had never taken JJ on a work trip before. I have joked about how bringing kids along to various festivals over the year has probably done my career no favours (as a long-term self-employed freelancer, I call it a career, but this is all just a hobby that has gone too far). Still, I like bringing them if it’s a couple of nights away because it’s always nice to watch Paw Patrol on phones in different geographic locations.

All week, the thoughts of the impending trip filled me with dread, the anxiety forming a knot in the pit of my stomach. Because my husband conveniently has yet to procure his manual licence, we couldn’t share the driving — yes, checkmate to Fred for dodging that bullet. Each time I voiced concern over the course of the week, he insisted we would be ‘grand’. For any non-Irish person reading this, please know that ‘grand’ is a wonderful descriptor that covers myriad eventualities — everything from utterly blissful to utterly traumatising.

When the morning finally came, packing the boot was like a bad game of Tetris. It was all going fine until Daddy had the audacity to try to squeeze a tiny suitcase containing his jocks and socks on top of all the baby stuff.

Can’t you just go commando?” I asked, and Fred seriously considered it for a moment before we decided to lean into the reorganisation mania by taking everything out and starting again. Eventually, we switched the buggy for a baby carrier, defying all laws of physics by squeezing Fred’s beloved guitar on top (so enamoured is he with his guitar he is surely only days away from inviting this guitar into our marital bed).

The journey was interminable — and that was only the bit as far as Tralee. To wile away the time, my husband devised a fun game called ‘Name That Landmark,’ specifically asking me to name a looming silhouette he spotted as we approached Limerick.

“What’s that?” he asked me.

“I don’t know — the Jacob’s factory?” I guessed, which is even more concerning when you think I used to moonlight as a history teacher.

My husband guffawed. “No, it’s Ardnacrusha. Sure, did you go to Trinity College at all?”

I have a look I give my husband when I am considering ending my marriage, which consists of a pursed lip and monosyllabic answers. Thankfully, by the time we reached Shannon, I’d pushed thoughts of divorce to the back of my head. Fred made amends with a pack of sucky sweets — always the way to my embittered heart.

Due to varying bladder capacities, we had not one, not two, but three pitstops along the way, with me trying to keep spirits up by playing my own version of Eye-Spy. Because our three-year-old has yet to get to grips with letters and spelling, I use colours as hints as to what I have spotted, but of course, the N18 is pretty limited when it comes to things that could possibly be green.

Within ten minutes, my three-year-old was pleading for mercy.

“Mammy, stop! The answer is always trees,” he sighed, his exasperation speaking to the car’s mood, bar my husband, who was having the time of his life.

Fred had deigned to put on headphones somewhere around Bunratty, leaving me instructions to tap him on the knee should he be needed, and I abused this privilege fully, tapping him on the knee to ask him to remind me where we were driving to, for the date of his birthday, and whether his favourite colour was still blue. Finally, we saw the sign that announced we had entered the Kingdom of Castlebar.

“Never again,” I vowed out loud as I pulled into a parking space across from Castlebar Garda station (surely the safest parking space in town) and switched off the ignition, my body collapsing in a huge sigh of relief. But then I remembered — I had to drive back.

It is the day after our traumatic journey, and rather than face four and a half hours of torture, we might just relocate to Castlebar altogether. I have convinced Ted that the Mayo flags are, in fact, Kerry flags that somehow got distorted in a mixed wash, so I think we can easily fit right in here.

The worst part is I have only just managed to drill my husband’s Eircode into his psyche and am not looking forward to getting him to memorise a new one, but such is the price we pay to avoid another trip to the soundtrack of Karma Police.