There’s nothing I like better than a week Down Under… on Anglesey
Isometimes feel sorry for Mrs Canavan. She is the type of person who likes holidaying abroad in warm climes, spending the day lazing on a sunlounger, and the evenings enjoying a fancy meal and nice wine. I, on the other hand, prefer a week in Whitby with a tent, fish and chips, and some lukewarm tea in a Thermos.
She must get her tastes from her father, who once told me he’d never again set foot in Scotland because on the one occasion he visited, it rained for the whole week.
I felt obliged to point out the many qualities of Scotland, not least the stunning scenery, those funny little skirts the men wear, and the cuisine (no one, and I mean no one, can make a battered Mars Bar like the Scots). However, he wasn’t for changing his mind. He just doesn’t like rain.
And his daughter – my wife - is the same. She wants guaranteed sunshine.
Unfortunately for her, she has married someone who doesn’t like getting on a plane (for two reasons: one, all that hanging around at the airport, and, two, the fact it might crash and scatter my body parts over a large surface area; I’ve had a lifelong fear of the plane I’m on crashing and then, in the inevitable accompanying TV news report, the journalist at the scene grimly saying, ‘the body parts are so unrecognisable that all investigators have to go on is the luggage’, at which point the camera will focus on a suitcase with a label marked ‘CANAVAN’ blowing forlornly in the wind).
My idea of the perfect holiday is somewhere in the UK.
I think I’m like this because it’s what I was raised on.
My dad always booked our holidays, usually in some grotty, ant-infested cottage or caravan that he spotted in the classified ads pages of the local newspaper.
If he saw something like – ‘Cottage on remote hillside in Devon. No electricity, poor access road, and damage to roof means rain leaks through. TV works but only if aerial manually held in one specific position. Cooker broken so must bring own camping stove. £25 for week’ – his face would light up and he’d purposefully circle the ad with a ballpoint pen and book it first thing next morning.
It seemed the worse the accommodation, the happier my dad was.
I can only assume it was because he came from a very poor background and was determined that we, his children, should experience it too.
But you know what – I loved every family holiday we went on, and it’s now exactly the kind of thing I do with my own kids.
‘How about Spain or Greece?’ Mrs Canavan will ask, leafing through a glossy travel brochure.
‘Or we could hire a house in Italy for the week. All in, it’ll only cost us £3,200.’
She knows there is absolutely no chance of this happening but it’s kind of nice for her to dream, so I wait a few moments to allow her pleasant fantasy to linger, then announce I’ve booked a week in Anglesey.
Which is exactly where we were last week.
We should have gone two years ago, actually, but the pandemic put paid to it. A shame, as the weather this time back in 2020 – during the first lockdown – was glorious.
It was postponed again 12 months ago – Covid was still rife – but finally, this Easter, we got to go.
The weather, it’s fair to say, couldn’t be described as glorious but, on the upside, it only rained six days out of seven and there was a beach opposite the house in which we stayed so the kids were as happy as Larry.
What I did find quite alarming was something that occurred before I went.
My day-job is as a teacher at a university and I told my students I was heading to Anglesey.
Out of 40 of them, not a single one knew where it was.
So I told them it was in Australia, to which one replied,
‘oh lovely – but that’s a long way to travel for just a week’.
The future of our country is in safe hands indeed…
My favourite bit of staying anywhere on holiday is to read the guest book, and in the house we stayed in it was a particular treat.
Usually people write quite bland things.
For example, there were these two entries in the weeks before we arrived: ‘What a beautiful place! The kids loved it and we had a wonderful time! Barbara says the crab at the local pub was divine! We’ll be back next year you can be sure of it!’ (there’s always a minimum of three-to-four exclamation marks in every guest book comment, as if people, in their giddy holiday state, suddenly forget basic rules of grammar) and ‘thank you thank you thank you – Richard’s 60th was FAB!!!
Lots of fun and Champagne! Nice dip in the sea too! What a house!!’
Much to my delight, though, I stumbled upon this entry, which is possibly the best I’ve ever read.
‘Arrived to gale force winds and torrential rain. Had to leave early as Aaron’s father died. On the whole not a good week. Andrew and Ruth.’
I admire Andrew and Ruth. They could have pretended all went well and left an uplifting comment but, no, they clearly had such a lousy week they thought, ‘sod it, let’s bring every subsequent visitor down with us too’.
I’ll write more about my actual holiday next time.
Till then I’m off to book next year’s vacation – a week on a camping site on the outskirts of Doncaster.
Mrs C’s a lucky lady.
I prefer a week in Whitby with a tent