Seeking Asylum on Holiday

 When the real world is troubling, my impulse is to get away from it all.

In the last year, we were hosting a Ukrainian family.  They were bereaved in the war and although they were perfect guests, there was a weight of sadness on the house.  We found ourselves going away a lot at weekends. But each time we turned on the radio, the news from Ukraine found us again.

Likewise, on our holiday to Cornwall, I was prepared to be faced with our own family problems, such as dealing with ageing grandparents, but not the social issues which ravage our nation.  However, as we took a morning stroll around Pendennis Point above the shipyards and looked down into the dry dock, we spotted something which looked like a block of flats on a barge. 

We were curious so Perran googled the name on its side, Bibby Stockholm, only to discover that this barge was being fitted out as floating accommodation for 500 plus asylum seekers.  Suddenly the Cornish sun seemed less warm.

If we can’t escape the problems of our age by going on holiday, then I guess we just have to go on demonstrating and signing petitions and helping out voluntary organisations with extra fervour, and at least that is one thing that a holiday gives us - we return home with the energy to do just that.

 

 

Family Holiday

We just had a family holiday. In many ways it was excellent - we stayed in a capacious holiday-let overlooking the Fal River. The weather was brilliant, so we walked and swam the coast every

day and cooked wholesome meals together in the evening. 

 

However, a family holiday always ends up as a microcosm of what is going on in the family.

 

Pascoe, Carenza and Perran are all busy at work so we made sure the house had good wi-fi in order to accommodate a certain amount of working from home, also great train links in order to allow anybody who had to arrive late (Pascoe), or leave early (Perran).  

We stayed close to Truro to allow us several visits to my elderly parents who have had a tough year.  

We were late departing on changeover day because one person had an important phone meeting, plus we had to take something to the dump for my dad, which meant we then hit heavy traffic all the way home, exacerbated by a train strike.  

Which in turn meant it was a close thing for Nigel to catch the train north to support his mother in the act of moving house from the north to the south on the following day.

When I look back, however, I shall choose to forget all the stresses and to remember only the sun-filled days and the evenings sharing plentiful food and wine. After all, there's nothing to beat a family holiday.

 

Substitute Holiday

During lockdown there have been emergencies and bereavements and immeasurable problems.

So it would seem churlish to grumble about missed holidays. And actually most people haven't been.

However, for many there has been the hushed sound of the passing away of a vision of oneself in bright summer clothes on a mountain or a beach or in a stylish foreign city.

It makes me realise that for me, nurturing the prospect of a break is as important as actually having the holiday.

This week was supposed to be spent with all our children in a holiday rental on the stunning Northumbrian coast. I could almost taste the salt air.

So although we didn't take the holiday, it had at least performed its role for several months this year as being something I was looking forward to.

In the end Nigel and I took the time off anyway and on Thursday we and the twins shared an outing to Chartwell, Churchill's former home.  The house was of course not open, but the grounds were. 

And after the very quiet life we have been leading recently that was excitement enough.

Chapel & Chips - Family Holiday, Guernsey

Cycled to the charming Little Chapel, hand mosaicked in multi-coloured china and tile by a monk about 100 years ago.  Nigel remembered visiting here on a childhood holiday.  We came again when our own children were tiny and I remembered accidentally leaving my copy of Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth here.  I had a quick look round but it seemed to have vanished during the intervening eighteen years. 

The ceramic decoration was mesmerising - themes and patterns would emerge over certain sections, but would then meld into the general melee of varied fragments.  There was a pattern of ormer shells on the vaulting above the Virgin Mary.  And what I didn’t expect, the Chapel took the visitor on a journey through to a further two tiny chapels at lower levels.  

Nearby were Guernsey clockmakers, inventive and imaginative yet tacky at the same time – segments of each clockface split, unfurled and twirled in time to Swan Lake or The Waltz of the Flowers, accompanied by motifs of tutu-ed ballet dancers or tulips, and regrettably studded with Swarovski.

Then north west on our bikes again, along lanes lined with a braid of red campion and wild sorrel.

We visited the tiny ancient chapel of St Apolline, the patron saint of toothache (following a  gruesome martyrdom which I'll leave to your imagination), and appreciated the exquisite mediaeval wall-painting of the Last Supper.

Then back in time for the Fleetwood Mac Tribute balcony concert at Cobo Bay Hotel.  Thousands of people thronged the coast road and beach to chill out  to the music, but I had something else on my mind: there was a chippie very close to the concert.

So last time we went on holiday en famille, I had brought with us salt, white pepper, malt vinegar and ketchup, all in anticipation of fish and chips.  However, Nigel had discovered that the chips that time were fried in beef dripping, thus putting them off-limits to four family members.  I had sadly taken home my condiments unused. 

This time however, Nigel solved the problem by not asking what their chips were fried in and I colluded by not questioning him.  Instead, I opened the fragrant paper parcel he had purchased, pulled the Sarsons malt vinegar from my ruck sack and drenched the delicious fish and chips.  They were so good that I barely remembered to feel guilty.  And as if fish and chips were not enough to make the Halleluiah Chorus play spontaneously in my head, we were eating them perched on a sea wall, my favourite spot for making any food taste twice as good.  Plus, the Fleetwood Mac Tribute was playing in the background.

After the chips, we lolled on the beach like seals, happy in our own blubber and decided we would wait on the beach for the sunset, even in spite of the fact that some local twenty-somethings came and began to hurl a rugby ball around far too close to us. 

One dropped the ball:  “You’re so gay!”  “I may be gay, but at least my dick’s bigger than yours.”  An object lesson in witty banter to be treasured by each one of us.

Family Holiday Fears

Emotionally, I am just not cut out for family holidays.  “Is it the catering?” you ask.  “Does your family bicker?”  “Is it tough spending so much time in each other’s company?”

No.  None of those.  It’s more….metaphysical.

You start the week with a sense that there are endless possibilities and that you will have limitless time.  You will play board games with your children and cook them their favourite meals. You will read the Booker Prize Winner, make watercolour sketches of the view from the window.  There are any number of historic properties and sites of natural beauty within reach.

Then, after a couple of days, one of the children returns home for a work commitment, soon to be followed by another.  By the end of Wednesday, you are more than half way through your week.  It becomes clear that you should have prioritised, should have pursued more single-mindedly the things you really wanted to do. 

Finally, there is the struggle to quell panic as the end of the break zooms up fast.

My problem is this: surely the family holiday is a metaphor for Life itself.

But as soon as I get home, I start looking forward to the next family break, whenever that will be.  And that really is the chief pleasure of a holiday – the anticipation of it.  It is there at the back of my mind, like Narnia at the back of the wardrobe - a land where time will stand still and all will be perfect once more.