Frequent traveller: Against the ash

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  • Anonymous
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    Anonymous
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    In which our correspondent looks back, now the dust has settled, on a disaster of volcanic proportions…

    I know this is old news, and that many of you probably experienced something similar, but when I read about the recent threat of strikes and how people were holidaying in the UK despite the indifferent weather, I couldn’t help but nod my head. I have no choice about travelling for business, but for pleasure, with my family, it’s going to be a different story from now on.

    In mid-April, on the way back from Dubai after a week’s holiday with the wife and children, we were somewhere over Poland when the captain announced we would be landing not at London Heathrow but Frankfurt. There was a stunned silence, a wait for an explanation that didn’t come, and then a blur of gold and platinum credit cards as the
    in-seat satellite phones experienced a once-in-a-lifetime bonanza.

    If you’ve never used one of these, don’t. The instructions are like self-assembling a precision Swiss watch, but on the third attempt my daughter grabbed it and we managed to connect for a ten-second shout to my assistant. She is such a superstar that I sometimes think she is clairvoyant, and unbelievably she was already on the case.
    After landing at Frankfurt, I waited for our bags while my wife and kids headed for BA assistance. Because the ash cloud was a new one for all of us, there was no indication of how long we would be delayed, but once I heard the pilots and cabin crew ahead of me at immigration discussing where to go out that night in Frankfurt, it was safe to assume we weren’t leaving that day.

    BA did a first-class job of organising coaches for a full B777 and a hotel in Darmstadt, about 30 minutes from the city. The hotel was like a YMCA dormitory without the charm or bunk beds, but was clean and comfortable, although it had only one English-speaking TV news channel on an endless loop, too much even for my neon tube-addicted children.

    The next day, the BA rep arrived at 12pm and a scrum formed, which wasn’t necessary as there was no news we hadn’t heard 40 times already on the TV. Meanwhile, my assistant and several others had collectively spent 20-plus hours talking to my travel department, which had gone into meltdown like a plastic toy on a hot radiator.

    With airspace shut, we looked into hiring a car but everyone in the world had the same idea and the cost wasn’t far off buying one. So my assistant reserved us a 6am foot-passenger ferry crossing from Dieppe and a chauffeur service to drive us all overnight, with a collection at the other end in Portsmouth. I’m aware we were very privileged in this, unlike many others, who had no money left, no battery life in their mobiles and shouty young children they couldn’t placate.

    I relayed the planned route home to my wife, who paused only to roll her eyes before asking: “Can’t you get an easier way back?” Before my head exploded, my assistant called back with Eurostar tickets from Brussels and a connecting service from Frankfurt the next morning. I went straight to the bierkeller to kill some beers in her honour.

    Darmstadt to Frankfurt by train was easy, but then we joined the ICE Brussels connection. The corridors were stuffed with luggage and it was standing room only. We guilt-tripped one man into giving up his seat for my wife and one of the kids, while I fashioned a seat out of four large bags and a set of golf clubs for my other daughter.

    We arrived 30 minutes late into Brussels and I had to pick up our tickets. The Eurostar hall looked like someone was trying to teach the Eton wall game to a refugee camp. The queuing system was dispensing ticket numbers in the thousands, while the next free desk was calling forward number 15. I asked a Eurostar person milling around if there was any alternative collection method and he spat through his comedy handlebar moustache: “Try again tomorrow.” I’m calmer than I used to be, otherwise I’d be writing this from prison.
    Three-quarters of an hour later, we had the tickets and boarded the train with three minutes to spare. Back at London St Pancras, a friend – and what a friend – met us to drive us home. I have never been so happy to see the house.

    It could have been worse, of course. Some family friends who left Dubai half an hour after us were turned back four hours into the flight. After a lot of adventures, they checked back into their hotel at a rate you wouldn’t believe, and had to pay it for the next seven days. So it’s Cornwall for us next time, rain or shine.


    excessbaggage
    Participant

    I’m still stuck in Singapore – gave up trying to find a flight home…


    PaulJennings
    Participant

    LOL

    There but for the grace of god.

    We were turned back to SIN after 5 hours flight on that fateful day. Spent a lot of time looking at fish and butterflies.

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