Friday, 26 July 2013


I'm going to confess something now and you're all going to think I'm really weird:  I hate going on holiday.

I know.   But I hate it, oh I really really do.

I put this down to three things:

1. Being an introverted hermit type whose idea of bliss is 3 days on my own, pottering about in my house with nobody to disturb me.

2. Having the sort of pale skin that burns and blisters at the first ray of sun peeking through the clouds in March.  No sunbathing for me.

3. The family holidays of my youth.

Lets take a closer look at my childhood family holidays, shall we?  While all my mates were off to Magaluf for sun, sand and dubious holiday resort kids clubs, we stayed in the UK; Cornwall, if I was lucky, but usually Yorkshire.  These holidays would involve walking boots and steam trains and endlessly driving around identical bits of moorland while it rained.  They also never failed to feature a stellar parental row in the car because my mother can't read maps, which would cast a cloud over the entire fortnight, usually culminating in her packing her suitcase, storming out of the holiday cottage and swearing that she would never come back to us (and just swearing in general to be honest).  Now, seeing as my parents have never been the Jeremy Kyle type, I can only put these uncharacteristic bust-ups down to the stress of going on holiday with kids.  In fact, I will go so far as to say that a holiday with kids on it doesn't count as a holiday.  It's just the daily grind but in a different place but with long car/plane journeys and without all the toys that you'd usually use to distract them.


We haven't been able to afford to go on holiday since I was pregnant with Rory.  Not one.  And it's amazing what you miss when the option isn't available to you.  Plus being at home with a child all year is really really boring and I'd do anything to have a holiday just to break it up.

I find myself scouring the internet for a family holiday deal like a lonely single man cruises for porn.  I start small; happy with the idea of a week in Whitby with ice-creams, buckets and spades and a crab or two for Rory to anger.  Then I get carried away, and the next thing I know, I'm all over month long cruises and 3 week sojourns to Canada and even Disneyland, which shows you how desperate I am, because theme parks and I do not mix.  I blame my parents and their British walking holidays for this.  Sod the rollercoasters, where are all the tea rooms and the quaint village wishing wells?  And why is it so damn SUNNY?   Truth is, I think I'm going ever so slightly crazy, having been stuck here in Cheshire (land of drizzle) for the last four years   I definitely need a holiday.  A big, tasteless hot one that involves going on a plane. I'd moan the entire time about wanting to come home, but that's all part of the fun, right?  Right?  Or maybe I should just stick to drizzly crab angering in Whitby.


  1. Love this blog! As a Cheshire girl in my youth I can identify with the annual South West holidays. I think my children can identify with the parental arguments as well.
    Slightly worried that, like you, they'll hate family holidays in the future now.

  2. I feel similarly. We tend to stick to lots of days out which seem to be much more successful!

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