Mo Laethanta Saoire: 'He was the reason my mother said novenas before I left'

One small consolation for my parents was that an older cousin was also on the ferry. Padraig was two years older than me and embarking on a boys’ trip to France. Six young Irish lads on the loose: you get the picture. It was pure chance that we ended up on the same ferry (probably the result of my mother’s prayers) but we would be parting ways at Le Havre. The boys had paid for a cabin, whereas my ticket was seat only. I won’t bore you with the details of the crossing. Suffice it to say, when we reached the open sea, the onboard disco was kicking off but I just felt tragically sick.

One of the boys gallantly offered me the use of his bunk. I lay down gratefully and didn’t get out of the bunk for the remainder of the journey. A lot went on in the cabin that night. The boys jump-danced at the disco, drank like fish (sorry about the word-play, but they did), and stumbled into the cabin in the early hours of the morning, when the seas were particularly rough and their hardened stomachs succumbed to motion sickness and ten-pints-of-Guinness sickness.

When we arrived at Le Havre, I rallied, eager to get off the ferry and onto solid ground. I walked out of the port terminal to see … pretty much nothing. The boys explained to me that the port was not in the centre of town (duh!) and I would need to get a bus to the town centre and train station. They then said ‘au revoir’ and I was on my own.

I reached the station without any major issues, and not long after I boarded a packed train to Paris, where I had to stand for much of the journey, trying to act confident, like I was perfectly comfortable travelling on my own. A few hours later we zipped through the outskirts of Paris, which were grim and gritty and nothing like I had imagined. Disembarking in Gare St Lazare, I tried to find the correct platform for the TGV. After enquiring in my school-girl French, I eventually learned that the TGV departed from Gare De Lyon (duh!), six kilometres across town. I decided to splurge on a taxi which I later discovered took a lot longer as well as costing a lot more than the metro.

Eighty francs poorer, I was nevertheless ecstatic to be on the TGV: at last somewhere I could sit in comfort without feeling motion sickness. I stowed my suitcase in the luggage rack and sank into my seat. Only to be asked to move a short while later: my ticket didn’t include a reserved seat. Each time the train stopped, I had to change seats. I got used to standing until the new passengers were settled in before finding an unoccupied seat to sit on. Many passengers were engaged in the same game of musical chairs, and those who spoke English chatted about their travelling experiences.

One particular man – French, aged in his early twenties – disembarked at every stop, and would reappear again just as the train doors were about to close. Before disembarking he would smile at me and ask me, in French, to watch his bag. Then he would take off his shirt: I couldn’t help noticing that his chest had several long narrow scars. On one occasion, I saw him flick open a knife as he was stepping onto the platform, and I realised that he was disembarking to fight, or perhaps to rob someone, or maybe just to strut around the platform brandishing a weapon. It was hard to return his smiles after that. My French beau and I parted ways at Marseilles: I still think about him, more than thirty years later. He was precisely the reason my mother said several novenas before I left on my trip.

It was early morning when I finally arrived in Hyères, a day and a half after leaving Ringaskiddy. I exited the train station to the smell of coffee beans, fresh bread, and heat rising from the pavement. A phone call later, and Claire and her aunt were on their way to pick me up. Hyères was a small city, with a population of about 50,000. Claire’s aunt lived in a rural area outside town: the road to her house had orchards and vineyards on either side. She had two adorable toddlers who spoke a combination of French and English, and her British husband had a boat repairs business.

There was a bidet in the downstairs bathroom, which the toddlers used to bathe in. Each night we sat outside for dinner, drinking wine and eating cheese. Except I didn’t like cheese, which was incomprehensible to my hosts; one night I remember having a peach instead. Nevertheless, I felt extremely sophisticated. On a visit into town, I sent some postcards to friends and family to let them know I had arrived safely – just about! 

A week or so later I received some mail myself. A letter from my boyfriend of two weeks! Yes, two weeks! What can I say? I made such an impression on this boy he wrote me a long letter while I was away on holiday (I made such an impression, we emigrated together a few years later, and eventually got married and had two children).

For the next week, I endeavoured to get a suntan (I wish I could tell my pale nineteen-year-old self that I was wasting my time), visited some neighbouring towns and ports, and enjoyed the fireworks for Bastille Day celebrations. Then Claire and I set out on our own adventure. We caught the train to Nice, and stayed a few nights in a cheap hotel across the road from a brothel. We ate croissants for breakfast, baguettes for lunch, and drank gallons of Orangina.

We winced as we negotiated the pebble stones on Opera Beach, declared our preference for the golden sand in Cannes, although we deemed Cannes lacking in atmosphere (I think we were on our own there!). We drank cheap wine in outdoor bars, while receiving marriage proposals from several Algerian waiters. We took out-of-focus photos of turquoise water, ancient churches, cobblestone alleys, and a bizarre number of fountains. And all too soon, it was over.

The following week, an infinitely more confident and competent girl left Hyères to begin the return journey home. She swapped seats on the TGV like a professional. At Gare De Lyon, she was approached by two Japanese tourists, who were trying to get to Le Havre. Been there, did that! She purchased metro tickets to Gare St Lazare, ferried the girls onto the correct train, and again onto the train north, imparting her hard-earned wisdom along the way. Finally, she caught the bus to the port and the least appealing part of the journey: the dreaded ferry.

But this time she was prepared. In her handbag were a packet of motion sickness tablets, purchased at a pharmacy in Cannes and guaranteed to ward off Le Mal de Mer. The tablets made her sleepy, but nevertheless she danced at the disco like it was the start of her holiday and not the end.

• BM Carroll was born in Blarney, Co Cork. She moved to Sydney in 1995 with her boyfriend, Rob, who is now her husband. She is the author of eleven novels.