The Dyslexic Traveller

There were many stories that I could tell about travelling with a husband and son who have dyslexia. I had thought that it was hard enough for them to process language and words in English, but to throw them both into an environment with another language promised to be much more challenging. In reality, I didn't find that to be the case. On most occasions they processed the signs, the conversations and the other literary demands with no more difficulty than the rest of us. There are, however two funny stories that come to mind.

My French has improved

The boys were planning a boys only trip for 2 months to China only to receive news just before they left, that the SARS virus was spreading through China. A last-minute adjustment to plans meant that they headed to France and instead decided to plan an action adventure travelling all around France. They were well into their trip and their basic French was improving.

It was a wintery morning in the south of France. They arrived early to be set up and get full instructions for a fantastic high ropes course. The instructor was a young smiling woman who approached them individually and harnessed them up whilst giving them instructions about what they needed to do once they got onto the high ropes. Gary and Brett had been harnessed and Tom was the last one. As the instructor finished Tom turned to Gary with the board smile. He proudly announced “I'm getting so much better at my French. I understood every word, she said”. Gary and Brett hesitated and turned to look at each other with broad smiles before they burst into laughter. The instructor had been speaking English.

I wish I was Polish

Dyslexic children often struggle to find the right letter so will just put any letter in that might fill the gap. This results in some very creative spelling. Tom did this often and his favourite letters to randomly insert were W, Y, K and Z. Can you see where I’m going with this? This made his spelling stand out in English as none of those letters are used that often. But in Polish it’s a different story. They are everywhere. Tom was in heaven. The words looked familiar to him and for some bizarre reason he could pronounce them. He said, “I like it here, they spell like me. I wish I was Polish”. The Polish people around us burst into laughter and he became a favourite at the camp ground known as the ‘the little Polish man’.