I can’t wait to go back to Greece this weekend

Going anywhere nice in the New – sorry, me neither. I had booked flights to Munich in January, but they were cancelled. I suspect their replacements in March will suffer the same fate, as it looks as though Germany won’t now reopen until after Easter.

Ho hum. Nothing to be done. Actually, that’s not quite true. There may be little to look forward to, but there’s a lot to reflect on.

That’s why I’m off to Greece again with my family at the weekend. Pitta bread, hummus, feta – via all those digital photographs we never look at, streamed on to the TV. They can do that these days, you know.

Come Saturday evening, we’ll be reliving the Peloponnese; the olive groves, the roadside shrines, the skinny cats weaving round our legs as we dined on whitewashed terraces.

Candid (aka unflattering) snaps of the grown-ups, artfully composed shots of the pouting teenager and the nine-year-old’s back as she scampered off in the wake of wayward kittens.

I can’t wait. For the shared memories of beaches and boats, the moments of fun and even friction – I see it as my duty to chronicle the sulks and sunburn every bit as much as the Byzantine churches and medieval walls of Monemvasia.

Psychologists say recollecting a holiday can recreate feelings of wellbeing and joy. I can see no better alternative to watching telly than watching ourselves on telly, happy and relaxed, barefoot or climbing-booted.

There’s more, all of it stored, unseen in The Cloud – until now. Summers on the Isle of Skye and in the south of France, city breaks in Marrakesh or Prague. That time we went to a treehouse in Hampshire, the gusting beach at Bamburgh, the camping wasp sting that swelled my daughter’s upper arm to Popeye proportions.

It seems insane that we are often too busy planning where we’re going to go to pause and ponder where we’ve been and what we learnt when we were there. Right now is the perfect opportunity.