Open Writing

It's no good beating about the brochures any longer; this family will definitely have to come to terms regarding a holiday decision.

Every year we gasp our way through technicolour photographs of thriving turquoise swimming pools surrounded by overhanging concrete, but we never discover anything cheap and attractive enough to tempt us across the Channel.

The glamorous bikini gracing the cover holds certain charms for some of us, but the thrills of this revealing figure are no match for the shock of black and white ones on the page marked ‘prices.’

These ubiquitous blondes who spread their tantalising forms across most of the holiday landscapes always raise the same question in my mind: who actually chooses the resort? Perhaps the dishy damsels with the wider than average smile are aimed at the dads, while mum gets on with the serious small print.

This year we dreamed of a boating holiday, until we finally translated the financial columns. But the expense of hiring a boat, before food, fuel or entertainment makes me seasick before we start.

Last year our son and eight mates steered to glory down the Norfolk Broads. He tried hard to find the right words to describe the beauty and advantages of his adventure into ‘boat land.’ Although he can give a lucid description concerning the interiors and lubricating merits of every pub situated within crawling distance from each of their moorings, the rest remains an enigma.

He has retained the indelible memory of a certain precarious trip from the deck of one boat to another carrying a plastic bucket filled with beer cans. ‘The water’s not fit to drink, Mum.’

It seems he missed his footing and the weight of the bucket, which for some reason he was reluctant to part with, dragged him to the bottom of the river. The rest of the crew never really recovered from their disappointment when he dragged himself back on board, empty handed. From all accounts mutiny was just avoided.

But what about children? Were there any interests for them, we wanted to know. Oh yes, there were swings thoughtfully placed in all the pub gardens, he told us enthusiastically. I tried to picture three children, ages ranging from eight to fifteen, swinging away into the darkness, while ‘throwing out time’ brought forth a swaying ship’s captain and his mate, but it kept fading, somehow!

We did try a tenting holiday one year – the year before hot summers arrived. When you knew it was summer because people carried umbrellas above their fur hats. I remember us all following chief camper's instructions and laying all the equipment (except tent, which hopefully went on the roof rack) outside the car, ready to be packed in the boot. Without the cases of food it would easily have filled a removal van. I could imagine the relieved expressions shining behind the lace curtains at this obvious evidence of our withdrawal. In the end we had to hire a friend to help transport us there and back.

But the outdoor life can become rather addictive after a time, especially the mouth-watering smell and sound of fresh bacon crackling merrily on the outdoor Calor.

During the coldest nights I thought of all the other bodies spread out across the moist field, and wondered what we would all look like if a gigantic wind suddenly wafted all the tents away!

For a number of years all the family were content to browse around the picturesque and lazy harbour of Saundersfoot in Pembrokeshire. We could either be anonymous in a quiet little cove or join the rest of the exploring tourists in the surrounding villages or perhaps take a trip to busy Tenby.
I love the unexplored, but not all the time, being content to swap stories with other visitors and natives sometimes.

Our ideal holiday plan is to spend the first weekend unwinding in solitary, idle confinement. After a hectic week of packing and planning, our only thought is to get away from everyone. This feeling usually lasts till Monday when we start feeling ‘matey’ again. Meeting new friends is one of the interesting by-products of my holiday.

When I hear others condemning ‘tourists’ and ‘tourist’ places I wonder in what category they place themselves. Are they actually admitting ‘We don’t like ourselves?’

Some proprietors in Cornwall are complaining all the way to the bank because the holiday-makers they encouraged have become too many for comfort. Surely we should all be prepared to sacrifice something to share our little patch of coastal heaven.

All happiness must pay, we thought last year, as we finally broke under the double pressure of children and television and consented to go ‘holiday camping.’ Unenthusiastically we joined what looked like a million others in the battle for our self-catering chalet key. With the sun slowly sinking over the chair-lift pylons, we drove swiftly in the direction of our chalet, which according to much pointing from various traffic wardens promised to be in the next county.

With excited children in raptures over the unusual bedding arrangements – ours was next to the cooker, we bit back our tears and forced ourselves to eat. Heart-sick for our Welsh cove we read what looked like a weekly programme, and brightened up a little. Didn’t look too painful, perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad week. Our hopes were shattered when daughter turned the page and asked eagerly, ‘Now tell us what happens tomorrow!’

By lunchtime of the second day our children were fully paid up members of every club there was. Dad and I had actually enjoyed a morning together with conversation and a delicious strawberry milk shake followed by our first hand-in-hand stroll along the beach without childish interruptions since we became parents.

Feeling extremely thankful and slightly sorry for ‘Uncle Jack’ we wandered back to camp. ‘What time’s dinner?’ shouted three voices from the sky, and floating in space on the chair lift were our three lolly-licking club members.

Some of our days were spent strolling up the beach to Filey where, after shopping, we often picnicked on the beautifully groomed lawns above the bay. But we really appreciated the camp entertainment during the evening. The children managed to stand beside us in the magnificently decorated Viennese ballroom for five minutes at a time, then off they dashed to the ‘slots’ or other esoteric pursuits, after which we all met for supper then back to the chalet for bed.

We played tennis, did some sailing, everyone except me swam in the pool and on the whole we all agreed it had been an unusually happy holiday. The biggest bonus was the fact that my man and I actually conversed, mostly me persuading him to dance but conversation all the same.

But none of this answers the pervading question: Where to this year?