Firstly he leaned out the window and checked the angle of the sun against the time on his wristwatch. Then he wet one finger and held it up to check the wind direction.

“Hmm, Chartres dead ahead. We can pick up signs for Orleans there,” he announced. A couple of minutes drive later the sign for Chartres appeared.

“ Awesome Dad. Way to go Tonto!”

“All in a days work for an ex cowboy like me,” he said modestly. This statement was only partly accurate. As a boy back in Ireland he used to spend his summer holidays on a farm helping out. Sometimes he would look after cows. Cow boy sounds just like cowboy if you say it quick. And he could ride a horse.

On the way into Chartres we picked up the signs for ‘Centre Ville’ or town centre if you like. Once in the town centre another sign, ‘Toutes Directions’ led us back out again. A turn off the main road indicated ‘Orleans’. We were back on track, but on a minor road not a main route.

This was a single lane in each direction. The road had a pronounced camber with drainage ditches running along each side. Tall poplar trees flanked the route, providing a welcome shade from the afternoon sun.

It was easy to imagine it packed with refugees fleeing ahead of the advancing German troops just thirty years before. Now the road was quiet. The only people blitzkrieging their way along it were us. Dad was trying to make up lost time. We were going through sleepy villages and hamlets so fast, that it is a wonder they didn’t scramble the French airforce to intercept. For the rest of the holiday, my little sister was convinced that all the sheep and cows were about thirty feet long and blurred in shape.

It was late afternoon when we reached Orleans and found the “Toutes Directions” signs. All the car windows were open but it was still stifling hot inside, as we crawled along the busy rush hour streets of the city. At one point the road ran alongside a broad river spanned by several bridges. We stopped at a set of red traffic lights. On our left stood a charming pavement café, where a family of four were enjoying delicious looking ice cream sundaes. At another table an elderly chap in a grey flannel suit was reading a newspaper, sipping alternately between his coffee and a large brandy.

“Lord I would murder for one of those ice creams,” Mum voiced aloud what the rest of us were also thinking.

“Know what you mean love” agreed Dad. “Never mind. With a bit of luck this time tomorrow we will be on a beach in Spain sipping pina colada.”

I had no idea what a pina colada was, but I was very much looking forward to finding out.

The lights changed to green and our car followed the general flow of traffic onto a bridge and across the river. Progress out of Orleans was proving to be very slow going. It’s a big place and everybody around was heading home at the same time. After about forty-five minutes we were again running parallel with the river and stopped at another set of traffic lights. They certainly went in for charming riverside pavement cafes in this place.

Wait a minute – isn’t that the same elderly chap in the flannel suit? So it was. The family had gone. By now the man had finished his newspaper and was reclining in his chair, head back and eyes closed. A fresh brandy in his hand, he was enjoying the last of the afternoon sun on his face.

Judging from the steam coming out of our driver’s ears and the groan of dismay from the front passenger seat, I was not the only one to have noticed.

“I think we should carry straight on past the lights and keep the river on our left,” suggested mother with little conviction. “What a great idea,” said the driver sarcastically.