I've learned something over my years of family travel: the best stories never come from the itinerary. They come from the moments when everything falls apart and you discover you're stronger—and luckier—than you thought.

This is one of those stories.

The Electrical Gremlin Nobody Expected

We'd just arrived in Northern Ireland after driving through Scotland in a brand-new 7-meter motorhome. I say "brand-new" like it was a blessing. 

Spoiler alert: it wasn't.

For days, we'd been battling electrical difficulties that made me question every decision that led to renting this particular vehicle. But we were determined. We docked at Larne, grabbed our sense of adventure, and headed toward the Giant's Causeway. We didn't make it very far.

That first night, parked at a rest stop, the motorhome started honking. Not the "I'm getting stolen, help me!" kind of honk. This was different. This was a "I'm dying" series of honks—the kind that makes your stomach drop at 6 a.m.

When the Steering Locks Up

In a panic, I realized the pattern: every time I turned on the headlights, the steering column would lock up and the engine would shut off mid-drive. Mid-drive. As in, while we were moving.

Let that sink in for a moment.

We broke down right in the middle of Holywood. Yes, you read that right. There is actually a Holywood sign in Northern Ireland, and I took this as a cosmic wink—surely the universe had a plan.

The mechanics were baffled. They poked, prodded, and scratched their heads at this Ford Lemon, but nobody could figure out what was wrong. And that's when I had to make the hardest call: I couldn't safely drive this vehicle with my teenagers inside. I pictured having to explain a steering failure to their father, and every maternal instinct screamed no.

The 10-Minute Meltdown (And Then Action)

Did I have a meltdown? For 10 minutes, absolutely. Yes, I did. I stood there in that Northern Irish rest stop, staring at a broken motorhome, two teenagers looking at me with worried eyes, and zero plan.

Then I took a breath. Put on my big-girl panties. And decided we were going to hitchhike to Belfast.

With teenagers. In a country we'd just arrived in.

We'd just gone grocery shopping, so we started hand-palming mustard and deli meat into our bags and purses—because apparently, that's what you do when your motorhome becomes a very expensive paperweight.

Enter John and Fiona

A taxi driver picked us up. His name was John, and he was about to change the entire trajectory of our trip.

"You know," he said, "I've got a cottage in the country. It's not far from here, on the way to the airport. You could stay there as long as you need. It's free—my girlfriend Fiona and I don't use it much."

He paused. "It's not 5-star, but it's yours if you want it."

I was too exhausted and grateful to ask questions.

The Cottage That Wasn't 5-Star

John wound his taxi down a path that looked like it belonged in Little House on the Prairie—narrow, winding, with funny-horned goats and rabbits jumping out of our way. The trees parted, and there it was: the most quaint, cozy white and green cottage I'd ever seen.

"It's not 5-star," John had said. He was wrong.

It was 10-star inside. Leather furniture, three freshly dressed bedrooms, and a warmth that had nothing to do with the heating system. When my kids walked through that door, their faces lit up in a way I hadn't seen since we'd left Scotland.

I was so relieved I could have cried. (I probably did a little.) For the first time since the motorhome started its death rattle, I could breathe. I could regroup. I could get my bearings in a country that was completely new to me.

The Kindness of Strangers

There's just something to be said about the kindness of strangers. John and Fiona didn't know us. They didn't owe us anything. But they saw a frazzled mom and two teenagers in a bind, and they opened their home without hesitation.

I'll never forget them.

The Punchline

As for the motorhome? I left it in Paddy's field next to Ed—the horse. It's probably still there, honestly. A very expensive monument to my decision-making skills.

But here's what I learned: sometimes, when something goes sideways, it's not the end of your trip. It's the start of it.

The best travel stories aren't about perfect itineraries or flawless motorhomes. They're about the moments when everything falls apart and you discover that you're braver than you thought, that kindness still exists, and that the detours are often better than the destination.

So here's to John and Fiona. To hitchhiking with teenagers. To cottages in the Irish countryside. And to the motorhome that broke down so I could find out what I was really made of.

If something doesn't go sideways, it's not a good trip. And that trip? That was the best kind of good.