Gate 335 in Dublin airport is not the prettiest stop before the French Riviera, but it’s what our pattern of travel in the past had made affordable for us in the present. The building outside of the modern and navigable airport feels more like a bus terminal strangely stranded at a construction site. A new plane was brought to us, one named after an Irish saint.
That petrol-smelling bus stop is where my wife and I began our long-promised and long-delayed anniversary trip. It was supposed to be for our tenth anniversary, but Covid intervened. Then it was to be our 15th, but our children weren’t settled properly at the time. Finally, this June, before celebrating 16 years, we finally managed to arrange care for the children. A house in one of the more obscure but beautiful towns between Toulon and Saint-Tropez awaited us. It’s called Carqueiranne.
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