I READ recently that British parents drive their children an average of 80,000 miles by the time they are 17. That's the equivalent of more than three times round the globe.

It's a frightening thought. My husband and I once dreamed of travelling the world - trekking in Nepal, walking the Great Wall of China, driving across the States in an open-topped car, going on safari in Kenya, diving off the Great Barrier Reef, that sort of thing.

In reality, we have covered the same distance, and more, trapped in a metal container on wheels with a pack of squabbling children.

Instead of hearing the rhythmic noise of waves lapping onto deserted, sandy beaches, listening to the musical call of the dolphins or the distant, exotic roar of beasts in the wild, our long haul journey has been punctuated by regular, high-pitched cries of "Are we there yet?" "Mum, he's hitting me," and "I need the toilet" or "I'm going to be sick."

In short, we have been driven to distraction.

As if that's not bad enough, we are forced to travel in squalor. The car is constantly cluttered with an assortment of football kits, wellies, tennis rackets, various items of clothing, old crisp packets, empty drinks bottles and all the other detritus that five boys gather.

"Have you had a burglary?" asked an astounded four-year-old I picked up on a playgroup run once as he surveyed the wreckage around him. An only child, his mother's car was immaculate.

But the mess is the least of my worries. Getting to our destination safely is my main concern. When the boys are beating the living daylights out of one another, and constantly calling for my attention, this is difficult.

Not that the boys appreciate the concentration required. "Mum, look at the painting I did," one of them said to me once as he thrust a sheet of paper in my face on the way home from playgroup.

"I can't look now, I have to keep my eye on the road and watch where I'm going," I explained. "But you know the way, dontcha?" he said, uncomprehendingly.

As they have got older, the noise and distractions have got worse. I remember childhood journeys where we played pleasant, sedentary games like I-spy, or counting red and blue cars on the motorway.

Our boys and their friends play an infuriating, mind-numbingly idiotic game called Mini-Punch-No-Return. The rules are simple: the first person who spots a Mini gets to punch someone else, with no comeback, as they announce "Mini-Punch-No-Return".

Boys, of course, love any game that involves thumping their brothers. And it inevitably ends in tears, usually mine. I would love to meet the person who invented the game, if only to give him a playful punch (no return, of course) on the nose.

There are other games too, such as the fight over whose turn it is to sit in the front seat and who is beside whom in the back.

And the two-year-old, also known as Houdini, enjoys the challenge of escaping from his car seat, especially since I started triple-strapping him in with a series of additional leather belts. When he does break free, which is often, I have to stop and re-strap him in. And so the game continues.

At times of greatest stress, I have been tempted to get them all out of the car, dump them on the roadside and threaten - just threaten - to drive off and leave them if they don't behave.

But then I remember the time I pretended to go on without the six-year-old on a walk up a country lane after he refused to go any further.

Instead of running after me when I hid in a hedge around a corner in an attempt to hurry him along, he sat down on the road, blew loudly on the emergency whistle attached to his "explorer" jacket (thank you, Gap), and shouted "Help, help" at the top of his voice.

Worried that someone might come to his rescue, I ran back. "What would you have said if someone appeared?" I asked. "I was going to tell them my mum abandoned me," he replied.

So, partly for the sake on my sanity, and also to save me from being carted off by Social Services, we have, once again, booked our family holiday on a remote, tiny island on the west of Ireland, staying in a holiday cottage right on the beach.

This means we can walk and bike everywhere. Apart from a few, adult-only trips to the shop on the mainland, there is no need to get in the car for two whole weeks. It will be bliss.

Apart, of course, from the small matter of the nine hour drive there and the nine hour drive back. I can't wait.

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