I never pretended that long haul travel was easy, and we always knew that buying a holiday house on the other side of the world was setting ourselves up for trouble, but this long haul business is madness. We arrived in France a week ago and I am only now starting to feel vaguely human again, let alone recover my mojo!

Setting off from Wellington with Mr 6, fresh from a night’s sleep and at the civilized departure time of midday, anything seems possible. We could conquer the universe. We can certainly handle three measly flights. Our route through Hong Kong direct into Barcelona means one less flight than usual, which means one less airport to transition through, and that is something to be thankful for.

On the other hand, with a route through Hong Kong (protest action); Barcelona (protest action from Catalan separatists) – we seem to have hit the jackpot with our choices this time. Boarding the flight out of Auckland, there are silver linings. With fewer people flying into Hong Kong, the plane is largely empty and we have a row each, allowing those of us who want to sleep, to stretch out. Of course, Murphy’s Law says this is not the night time leg of the journey, but we take what we can get. My travelling companion seems to prefer the movies to sleep, in any case.

Hong Kong airport in the middle of the night is not the best of places, and it’s a struggle to find food and drink to satisfy the odd cravings of a six-year-old who hasn’t eaten anything much since the lunchtime ham sandwiches, but whose body clock says it’s midnight. We resort to tap water and fries from Burger King. Needs must.

Onward to Barcelona after just three hours of transit, the plane is full. Not many may be flying in, but plenty are flying out. We are already tired and facing a 14-hour flight through the night, sitting upright. I had forgotten how long this second leg is. ‘How long till we get there?’ asks Mr 6. Sigh – this is going to be a LONG flight.

Arriving at Barcelona after what feels like a lifetime, it helps to be met by an old friend and work colleague, who drives us to her place where we can eat and nap, and soak up some sunshine from her balcony before moving on to our final destination in the Pyrenees. No sign of any separatist activity. We’re on land and it is sunny. All is good. Except it is 7am and we have a whole day to get through before we can have a full night’s sleep!

As the crow flies, Barcelona is only two hours’ drive from Quillan, so a good transit option, but we have to get to Perpignan to pick up our hire car, and have booked to spend a night there to avoid driving while tired. To be honest, I might think twice about this in future because it adds 24 hours to the transit, which is painful when you just want to get settled.

After a few hours of rest, and refueling with solid food, we say goodbye to our Barcelona friend and head off into the underground system for the short ride to Barcelona Sants train station and our late afternoon high speed train to Perpignan. Only when we reach the station, it is clear from the departures board that our train is cancelled and there are no trains beyond the Spanish border all day.

What??!! Tired and with small boy in tow, and a bunch of luggage, my heart sinks. It’s 4pm in a foreign city in a big train station full of people who speak another language. What to do? Thank goodness for resilient travelling companions who trust in the brave, calm front you are putting on, while screaming on the inside.

The rail staff are friendly but unhelpful – “no trains for at least a week. You will have to talk to SNCF for a refund and book alternative travel.” Help?! We have a hotel booking in Perpignan tonight and a car to collect at 9am tomorrow morning. What alternative travel? Thank goodness for free station wifi and a smart phone. I get Mr 6 set up with his drawing and frantic googling and messaging ensues.

Thank goodness for my Barcelona friend, who manages to secure us the last two seats on a night bus north and send the tickets via text and app. It just means crossing the city to change departure stations, and a three-hour delay. Not too bad. And the bonus for Mr 6 is the opportunity to check out the police motorbikes lined up at our new departure station. He’s in heaven. I’m sweating. wondering where our next meal is coming from and how to go to the toilet while managing logistics of small boy and sizable luggage…

Intercity bus stations are never the most salubrious of spots, but Barcelona Nord is not bad as far as they go. After a short wait with a representative sample of humanity, the bus finally arrives and European bus etiquette applies. Cue, scrum of humans around the bus door. Naturally the person with ticket problems is at the front. This is where it helps to come from a rugby playing nation and have a rugby-ball-sized companion. After some jostling, we manage to secure front row seats.

I set my alarm, as this bus is headed for Paris, and I do not want to miss my stop and wake up in the banlieues in the morning! As it happens, given a half hour smoko stop at a petrol station just south of the border, and a half hour border police stop five minutes later, there was not much chance of us sleeping… I remember why I haven’t caught a night bus since I was 24 years old. Exhausted, we are pleased to finally arrive in Perpignan at 11pm and grateful for the foresight of having booked a hotel right opposite the bus station. Just time for a picnic dinner in the hotel room before collapsing into bed.

All that remains is to collect the car in the morning and make the short drive across the Fenouilledes and through the gorges to Quillan on familiar roads. Arriving to the view of the hills from our front door, I am reminded that the madness is all worth it.