I need a holiday to get over the holiday

Vacations are fine but so is pottering about at home, says Sue Bramwell.

Ihave been ambivalent about holidays ever since I was made to wear a pirate’s hat made out of the Nelson

Evening Mail on the beach at Kaiteriteri 54 years ago.

Despite it being skilfully made and large enough for the Owl and the Pussycat to go to sea in, it did not stop me from getting badly sunburnt. I spent the rest of the holiday laying under scratchy sheets, covered in calamine lotion.

My brother, blessed with olive skin, got a much better deal, winning the Mr Junior Kaiteriteri contest. He was aged 4, and described by one gushing judge as being ‘‘cute as a button’’.

My mother used to describe any holiday that involved camping, campgrounds, and caravans as ‘‘housework under difficulties’’ which is hardly surprising given she had three small children and their attendant laundry to chase around after.

I feel much the same; and take the view that a holiday should not involve you being less comfortable, or present anything more problematic, than staying at home. My adventurous gene is well satisfied by watching all the documentary channels. I can vicariously enjoy people interacting with dangerous animals, eating food of dubious origin and hacking through the jungle to reach the famed temple of the blessed traveller on the side of a cliff. After all this excitement, they get to sleep in a hammock at the top of a tree; secure in the (mistaken) belief that bears, tigers and snakes can’t climb.

Recently, two family weddings in the rural North Island required me to pack my bags and join my bloke on holiday.

Fortunately we were well accommodated, fed and entertained and enjoyed ourselves enormously. But both trips required a fair amount of negotiation before we left home.

After ascertaining that neither trip involved eating unidentifiable food, sleeping on the ground under canvas or washing ourselves and our clothes in a river I moved onto more important things. The most critical was the timeline of when were we going and when were we coming back so I could arrange for the cat to have her daily intake of Tibbles on toast, cancel the newspaper and have the mail brought in.

On the first trip we were both flying in and out which was a relatively simple proposition. The second involved my bloke driving up a couple of days earlier and me flying in and out, later and earlier, respectively.

My offer to drive up with him was wisely (and quickly) declined on the grounds that even the most tolerant person can snap when the conversation of his passenger consists of a constant whining query of ‘‘how far now?’’

Him taking the car meant I could pack well, but not wisely, and shove it all in the boot. This allowed me to fly up encumbered by anything heavier than my mascara.

Apparently, I am getting much better at this holiday thing, and should it involve any driving after festivities then my popularity soars in direct proportion to their state of inebriation and mine of sobriety.

Only two things apparently stop me from being perfection on a stick in this regard.

First, I have no inner compass and am generally known for being geographically dyslexic when faced with a trip further than the letterbox.

Second, although I am a reasonably good driver in most cars and across wildly varying conditions, I am not yet the sort of driver that will willingly hit livestock on remote rural roads. Thus, I lost a lot of credibility and earned considerable derision by braking at various intervals to avoid a feral cat, a possum and a hedgehog.

Slowing down to allow a family of quails to cross the road unharmed, however, was generally considered the decent thing to do.

I should note that my desire to preserve wildlife is very superficial as it did not extend to turning down a meal of crayfish and venison later in the holiday, or buying a pair of leather shoes.

Having done a road trip down to Queenstown and back through Central Otago, attended a wedding on a farm in Tirau and another in Hot Water Beach in Coromandel – all within a period of five weeks – I am about holidayed out.

Delightful though they all were, there is something to be said for peacefully pottering around your own home with nowhere to be at no particular time and all of life’s essentials – like your hairdresser – close at hand.

This month, apart from going to work, I intend to go no further than the end of the garden to hide Easter eggs for my grandson to find. As it is a treasure hunt, he will be wearing a little pirate’s hat made out of newspaper.