Next year’s holiday is at your house – if the offer’s still open
Well as you can see, I’m back from my summer break and first of all I must extend a HUGE thank you to all you lovely Telegraph readers who contacted me in my hour of (admittedly First World) need.
As I dolefully announced that my French escape had been axed, my tent had fallen foul of a storm and my thatched cottage in the country had been cancelled by computer with just days to go – I was swept up in a tsunami of generosity.
“If you fancy a week in the Derbyshire Peak District, come muck in with us,” wrote John, a retired doctor. “You can enjoy walks from our front door… and start by visiting Eyam, the plague village.”
Malcolm, in East Anglia, extended his hand in friendship: “We have a dog-friendly holiday cottage in Cley next the Sea, which we don’t let out, but are always pleased when it is used by family and friends. You and your family are very welcome to stay there free of charge for a few days.”
Pamela offered her luxury lodge near Bridlington. Angela rang around asking friends if their second homes were vacant. Felicity popped down to a campsite near Hay on Wye to check availability.
It was astonishing, moving and utterly heartwarming to be offered enough accommodation to conduct a Queen Bess royal progress the length of the land, but without the 500 carts of luggage and mile-long train of carriages. Just the Skoda estate, thanks.
Once ensconced, I would set about eating my way through the local swans and demand ever more elaboratelygilded peacocks and battleships crafted from marchpane.
What kindness! Even John Humphrys (yes THAT John Humphrys) got in touch suggesting his glorious west Welsh retreat in exchange for a voluntary donation to a charity in Sub-saharan Africa that he quietly (oops, not any more) set up to help impoverished mothers and children.
My reply was a bit fan-girl gauche, but he received it in good part. As did you all when I graciously (I hope) declined on the grounds that I had already ordered a new tent.
Truth be told, I was curious to discover if camping in 35 degrees in a Suffolk field with no shade was more or less pleasant than battling a Sussex twister.
I can report that it was better, if not without its hideous sweat-drenched challenges that were to be endured rather than enjoyed; Tenko springs to mind but without the bluff reassurance of Stephanie Cole.
Oh, and our two dogs had to be rushed off to the vet on the last night with potentially fatal seawater poisoning after a surfeit of splashy fun.
No, I had no idea it was a thing either, but £250 later, it was one hell of an expensive lesson in canine electrolytes.
Then we went home to get my daughter’s algorithmic A-level results followed by her new A-level results, which were technically her old ones. But who cares any more?
All that matters was she crossed the line and (hurrah!) will be leaving home – sorry, I mean studying at her first choice of university.
Buoyed by that prospect, we headed off to our holiday proper, a Norfolk cottage set in a forest.
And you know, it looked perfect; its rambling grounds were home to muntjac deer and loping hares. Goldfinches lit up the lilac tree, the hedgerow danced with clouds of fritillaries. And inside we were met by a blizzard of flies engulfing us, our food and belongings.
“At least they’re not blow flies,” my husband announced authoritatively. “So there’s no dead body.”
Given he’s sat through all 23 series of Silent Witness, I believed him. But although I’m not the squeamish type it was still a bit horrifying.
Even after dousing the place in fly spray, still they came. But hey, a holiday’s a holiday in these straitened staycation times.
So we sat tight and truth be told, I went a little nuts. Not Aggie and Kim How Clean is Your House nuts; more like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now completely loco.
I was Colonel Kurtz crazy, a sniper taking them out one by one with a rolled up copy of The Telegraph sports section (for close combat it just felt right, you know?) knocking back Sicilian rosé in between death blows.
And to think I could have in been in Hampshire, at Clare’s weekend cottage complete with swimming pool, tennis court and fishing lake. Or at Brigette’s bijou apartment overlooking the harbour in Whitby.
“Where’s Mummy?” the bleary 11-year-old would ask every morning.
“Hush child, she’s in the killing fields,” my husband would reply, glimpsing me, wild-eyed and barefoot in my Zara summer frock, crouching on the kitchen table, waiting, just waiting…
But not every day of course; as our one special treat I had booked tickets to see the Anish Kapoor sculpture exhibition at the splendid Palladian gem Houghton Hall near King’s Lynn.
We got up early, drove for almost two hours, queued to get into the car park for an hour – then discovered our tickets were actually for next month. My how my husband laughed.
Eventually. And with that, summer 2020 drew to a fittingly absurd close, rich with incident if woefully short on relaxation.
As usual, my antidote to the post-holiday blues is to set about booking next year’s break almost immediately. But who knows if France will be fermée, Italy out of bounds or Croatia corralled by a cordon sanitaire?
All I want is to eat, drink and be merry in convivial company. So on reflection, I might just go for the Best of British and embark on a gorgeous grand tour of Telegraph readers’ houses. That’s if the offer’s still there?
It was moving and utterly heartwarming to get so many offers of accommodation