Forget the holidays, I need a hug with Mum
LAST week I went on holiday. The garden is nice this time of year. Four stars is what I’d have given the experience on Tripadvisor, with points off for uncomfortable outdoor seating and the appallingly slow service on that second Aperol spritz.
Still, we made the best of it. Long lies and long walks, a couple of movies and a barbecue on the Saturday night.
It was nice in its own way, although I can’t say I plan on booking up on an annual basis. Food got a bit repetitive after a while and the quality of the live entertainment was poor.
I’ve spent some time lately thinking about holidays gone by. Of the little terrace bar in our Rome hotel last summer, where we would sip negronis and watch the sun set over the rooftops while the church bells tolled.
Of that warm, suffused feeling when the sun gets into your bones as you walk the cobbled streets of a whitewashed Mediterranean village. And of waking early and expectant in a new city just waiting to be explored.
As a child we often went to Devon or Cornwall, an epic drive from the Clyde coast. We’d set off at around 4am in Dad’s Ford Sierra, me in the back seat under a duvet, peeking out as the dawn rose across the windscreen.
There was that thrilling moment when we crossed the Border – a whole new country! – then stopped for a greasily delicious breakfast at a motorway service station, two weeks of seaside, ice cream and hot, sticky evenings stretching ahead.
Even now, despite the misery that often accompanies air travel in the 21st century, I still feel that same tingle of excitement, of going away, whenever I get to a check-in desk.
As things stand, however, who knows when a holiday might happen again?
Many millions of sun-seekers have had their summer holidays cancelled this year. Others are in the difficult position of no longer being able to afford one when, arguably, they have never needed it more.
Because holidays aren’t just about relaxation. They’re about getting away from ourselves and our day-to-day lives, and from its same-ness
Under lockdown, spending 23 hours a day trapped in the same few rooms, it seems harder than ever to escape.
The other day I found myself making the daring decision to blow-dry my hair in the kitchen instead of the bedroom, just ‘for a change’. There has been much chat about air corridors to certain countries, of relaxing rules so that we can get our fix of sunny days and carefree evenings.
But much as I miss it, I won’t be signing up. For this year at least, I will forget dreams of wandering through cobblestoned streets in floaty dresses, of brushing the sand off a warm bottle of beer, of squinting at a map while swearing blind it was left at the little church on the corner.
BECAUSE when it comes down to it, much as they are wonderful breaks which soothe the soul, a holiday is not a necessity. They are a privilege, not a right. As with so many things during this pandemic, this is another lesson I am slowly learning.
I don’t really need a holiday. What I do need, however, what I absolutely must have before this summer is over, is not an air corridor to Spain but a corridor down the A9, so I can spend the night at my Mum’s and give her an enormous hug. That’ll be more than enough of a holiday for me.
Until then, I’m fine with ordering an Aperol spritz from the garden.