The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
Why a holiday with your best friends will make you feel 20 years younger
Forget about Botox – it’s regrouping on a girls’ trip that really turns back the clock, says Kari Colmans
IDespite the years of friendship between us we each saw one another a little bit deeper
t was clear just two minutes into the holiday groceries chat – when all seven members of our “Mums Trip” WhatsApp group agreed to forego their usual milk alternatives for good old-fashioned semi-skimmed (from a cow!) – that our long-awaited girls’ weekend in Mallorca was going to be bloody wild.
My closest girlfriends and I all go back decades. Four of us met at primary school, while the newer additions blended seamlessly into the fold through the following pre-teen and university years amid a haze of TV marathons, vodka-fuelled breakup tears and plates of anaemic potato smileys.
Over the years, we have all been pretty good at keeping in touch, sticking to monthly dinners alongside afternoons spent in playgrounds – but it had been more than 20 years since we had managed to pack our bags and get away from it all properly, just us. And so, we hatched a plan, deciding to leave our panicked husbands and putout children to jointly contend with a weekend of football schedules, dance classes and pre-summer funfairs on their own, and abscond to a villa in Mallorca. The week preceding our departure tallied with multiple temperatures, runny noses and mysterious spots among both children and husbands alike, but all attempts at sabotage were unsuccessful: we were escaping, come what may.
For one long weekend (Thursday to Monday – the longest stretch we could still legitimately claim was a weekend and not an actual week away) nobody was going to shout “Mummy...” through a closed toilet door. Nobody was going to ask what was for dinner. We vowed to not switch on a washing machine, needlessly Dettol a surface, or wipe anyone else’s nose.
As with any close-knit group, we each have our roles – among them “the sergeant”, “the flake” and “the mediator”. Though amplified in our 20s, they had mellowed as we matured – but as soon as we lugged those heavy suitcases on to the rolling conveyor belt at Luton Airport, it was as though they had never been away. Suddenly free of the defining roles put upon us by adulthood, we immediately reverted to our pre-adulting types and – dutyfree Miraval rosé in hand (thank you, “the practical one”) – bounded on to the aircraft as fast as our Birkenstock clogs could carry us, headed for sun, swimming pools and proper grown-up girl time.
And it was bliss. Of course, we each cherish our loving, supportive partners and ever-growing broods of children, but over the years of mum-ing, careering and pandemic navigation, it’s been easy to forget who we were before all that. Cocooned in our villa in Calviá near Palma de Mallorca, stretched out by the pool, Kindle in one hand and blush wine in the other, we could just breathe. We spent hours reminiscing about our formative years – how “the naughty one” would play pranks on our teachers; whether “the wild one” really did do that thing with that boy on that boat – while in the background our children’s happy voices permeated the air through FaceTime, stealing virtual goodnight kisses. We cringed at our outlandish fashion faux pas (pink hair extensions, anyone?) – though when it comes to double denim and Jane Norman cropped-tops, it seems the joke is on us, as our childhood dream wardrobes now stare back at us from the pages of our glossy style bibles.
We chatted frankly, bared our souls and said what we were really thinking. We admired the simultaneous stretch and hold of a Hunza G swimsuit (and who could still get away with one from H&M) and debated the merits of a oneor two-piece after inhaling a steaming seafood paella and a towering cone of gelato for lunch.
Though the tanning oil has long been traded for factor 50, it is still hard to avoid the allure of a holiday tan. The sun beat down on us as we sat, side-by-side, on the edge of the infinity pool, enjoying the way the sailing boats gathered like ants along the horizon. From raucous laughter one moment, to comfortable silence the next, barely 20 minutes went by without someone breathing a huge sigh of happiness and squealing: “I can’t believe we actually pulled this off!”
Secluded in our cocoon, we were vulnerable with one another in a way we can’t be as mothers on the job. Time was suddenly endless – conversations could be considered, not just snatched. And despite the years of friendship behind us, we each saw one another just that little bit deeper. We were safe to share our experiences and feelings about our relationships, our children, our roles and our jobs (and – the big one – who has or hasn’t succumbed to Botox).
We spoke honestly about what truly makes us happy, the things that scare us and the things we realise must change for us to truly manage. Some acknowledged that they needed to slow down, while others felt ready to take on new challenges; to continue discovering what could still define them. And all the while, we marvelled at how a few premidday glasses of rosé could feel quite so blimmin’ glorious.
Although we had imagined braving a drunken night in the clubs (for old times’ sake), we let the memories of our last visit as a 20-somethings collective entertain us as we whiled away the evenings in buzzy Puerto Portals. We clinked our extortionate margaritas while devouring tapas, switching jelly shots and late-night KFC for Padron peppers, Iberian ham and oozing sobrasada croquettes, and unanimously agreed: we hadn’t felt this young in years.
We vowed to make this an annual trip and smiled at how lucky we are to have friendships so deep-rooted that they somehow felt both unchanged and irrevocably entrenched after a few days of just “being” together.
Forget the sting of sunburn and morning-after sambuca sickness that followed our teenage holiday benders – this time, we headed home to our families feeling rejuvenated and content, physically and emotionally, soothed as only time with lifelong friends can soothe… and, on touching down at Luton, ready to crack out the wet wipes.
Covid rules Vistors to Spain must show proof of full vaccination, or a certificate for a negative test taken within 72 hours prior to departure, or a proof of recovery. For more information, see fco.gov.uk