MY ‘PLAN B BREAK’ MADE ME APPRECIATE HOME COMFORTS
Ithink it was shortly before the gazebo blew away in a South Downs twister that I peeped at my phone and allowed myself one last glimpse of The Perfect Red-shuttered House in France where I was supposed to be.
No, I tell a lie. It was when the tent leaked so catastrophically, the mattress was transformed into blotting paper and for one long, wakeful night, it was wetter inside than out.
Last weekend, I should have been in Brittany en famille, nursing a chilled glass of cider and watching the bottlenose dolphins breach the waves off La Pointe Saint-mathieu.
Instead, I found myself in an East Sussex field, battling with the elements. And, by any measure, losing.
Let me hasten to add that I love camping. I enjoy the back-to-basics pace of the day, the marshmallows-andwine camaraderie around the firepit, even the pitterpatter of summer showers once I’m safely tucked up in my sleeping bag.
But last weekend, as half the country was bathed in sunshine, I was in the other half, assailed by howling gales and driving rain.
I’m no fair-weather sissy. On previous trips, I’ve woken up to find the dog basket afloat (still containing the dog) and the groundsheet strewn with worms. Down the years, I’ve managed wasp stings, bitter disappointment when the “local” pub turned out to be eight miles rather than eight minutes away, and somehow rustled up dinner when we forgot the cooking stove.
But it’s hard to triumph over adversity and keep spirits up when your thoughts are drifting across La Manche to what coulda woulda shoulda been, had 2020 gone to plan.
I do get that losing out on a fortnight in France scarcely registers on the holidays-from-hell scale. But I’d been obsessing over The Perfect Redshuttered House since I booked it last September, after what felt like weeks of searching online.
We only go abroad every other year because we love our exhilarating staycations on Scottish islands and it’s important for the children to discover the beauty of Britain.
Heading off to Europe, then, is a big deal; hence the need to nail down destination and accommodation well in advance. My tastes aren’t lavish but they are precise.
Back when the pandemic started, I resolutely refused to cancel, secretly vowing to paddle-board across the Channel if necessary, floating dogs, kids and suitcases behind me.
But the French owner of the house was more circumspect and cancelled at her end. Soon after, I booked us a break in Norfolk for next month.
Camping was an extra treat to distract us from thoughts of Brittany. And, in a funny way, it worked. After the gazebo went Awol and the tent gave up the ghost, home felt like the sweetest place in the world.