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It has been suggested that the chariot race in Ben Hur was based on a movie mogul’s abortive attempt to circumnavigate Paris at rush hour.

The Peripherique is many laned. Cars drive flat out at all times. They drive so close to one another that direction indicators are useless. To signal your intentions to other road users the custom is to blare your horn repeatedly then just execute the manoeuvre, change lane or whatever, even if it is against the laws of Physics to be able to get your car into the available space. French drivers don’t have a lot of time for the laws of physics. So far as I can tell French drivers have heard of the Highway Code, but don’t believe it has a significant role to play in the day to day life of La Republique. Basically a nice idea but not very practical if you want to get to work on time.

We were approaching the highway with great trepidation. It did not seem possible for us to slot into the traffic flow, so tightly was it packed. We were lucky, you might say. The coach directly in front of us just threw himself off the slip road on to the main highway, forcing several cars to swerve or brake hard. Amid a cacophony of angry car horns we slid into the gap. Dad swallowed a handful of caffeine tablets, clearly uncomfortable with what was happening around us.

Soon we came upon another approach road. Traffic joining our lane at high speed, uncaring that our family was actually already in the space they wanted to occupy. Dad was forced to swerve into a faster lane accompanied by more blaring car horns.

Mother’s eyes were glued to the map. It was a lot less traumatic than watching the traffic around us. For the first time I wanted to swap places with my brother and sit in the middle.

“How much further to our exit Maria?”

“Not much further. Two more junctions I think”

“What do you mean, you think?” Panic rising. Dad did not want to be here at all.

“Just come off when you see a sign for Orleans.”

Some twenty minutes went by before the sign for the Orleans exit appeared. Dad kept looking over his shoulder, hoping for a gap in traffic so we could pull over into the exit lane.

Suddenly we found ourselves being overtaken on the inside by a monstrous truck – another manoeuvre the Highway Code advises strongly against on safety grounds. The monstrous truck was towing an even more monstrous trailer, both bearing the symbol of a laughing cartoon character cow on the sides. Dad didn’t find it funny. The thing had more wheels than a centipede has feet and it was thundering along just inches to the side of us. I have been on shorter commuter trains than this truck ensemble. Now the driver had slowed so that he was just keeping pace with us, studiously ignoring our flashing indicators.

There was no way past him. The exit for Orleans passed us by.

“Bastard” screamed my father impotently.

The monster truck was enjoying his little game with us. When we slowed down, so did he. He made us miss the next turn off as well.

“Right, that’s it. Now I’ve had enough of you clowns”. Dad’s face now set grim and determined. As we approached the next exit, he hit the brakes hard and executed a move not unlike the one Michael Schumacher made to win the Formula One championship by wiping out his nearest challenger on the first bend of the decisive race. You remember that unfortunate accident? Certainly not deliberate, right? Yes, right.

Dads move worked without a collision and at last we had escaped The Peripherique. Thank God.

We drove a short distance and pulled in at a parking spot. Dad was shaking as the adrenaline slowly ebbed out of his system. He took several moments to regain some composure.

“Okay then. Where are we exactly?”

Mum looked just a touch blank. My little brother came to her rescue “France, daddy”.

“Nobody likes a smart ass, John, so leave the map reading to your mother please”.

He turned back to mother. “Any ideas? Any at all?”

“Not really too sure. Got a little confused when we missed the Orleans turn off. Did we overshoot by two junctions or three? Tell you what, why don’t we get back on the ring road going the other way until we get back to where we should be.”

This suggestion was just enough to send dads new found composure to the back of the draw where you keep odd socks, just in case one day you happen across the missing one.

“Are you mental, woman? I am never, ever, ever going on that road again. Not even if it means we have to go home via Copenhagen to avoid it.”

He had started to shake again at the mere thought of getting on and off the Peripherique again, his left eye developing a nervous twitch. He gripped the steering wheel and began muttering to himself: “Think calm thoughts. Think calm thoughts. Remember there are children in the car. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. In pastures green…”

Half way through reciting the psalm he regained control, took a deep, deep breath and asked to see the map. Mum was happy to hand it over.

Dad has always had a brilliant sense of direction – my Uncle Alan reckoned he was three parts Irish and one part homing pigeon. He studied the map for a few minutes, then went through an elaborate charade with the sole intention of entertaining us kids.

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.