Most of my childhood holidays were staycations – and given how hit-and-miss foreign getaways can be, maybe that was for the best
In an age of Instagram, you’re only as interesting as your last holiday – and the pressure can be too much to bear
Some people are naturally good at going on holiday; espadrilles and battered holiday hats don’t make them look like pillocks. These are the types who visit places no-one’s heard of before they become hellholes, and return home buzzing with all the amazing adventures they’ve had. These are the people who actually see the waterfalls/Northern Lights/dolphins; who manage to time their trip to Japan to coincide with the explosion of pink cherry blossom in Maruyama Park.
Meanwhile, the rest of us spend a couple of weeks stuck to a plastic chair wondering whether it’s time for another microwaved cheese toastie.
I don’t come from a holiday-going family. Mine was not a childhood of Riviera villas or even package deals to Spain; we didn’t go skiing, and we never even visited our relatives in New Zealand. After a long career in the army, including a number of postings abroad, my father was done with foreign travel by the time he was in his forties. I remember a never-repeated family caravan holiday to the south of France; a holiday with the cousins in a Welsh farmhouse, where the highlight of the week was when a bat got into our bedroom. But apart from a couple of notable exceptions, we spent the holidays at home. I never felt particularly bothered by this – home was good fun. I lived in the Northern seaside town of Blackpool, its iconic lights twinkling just down the road and golden beach hidden under sewage. Who needed holidays, anyway?
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