‘Tis the season to be going away from home, preferably abroad, staying in the country you’re already in, if you must. You’ll have seen those ads with beautiful people in bathing cossies, playing by the sea, eating ice cream and generally having a fab old time. I can count on one hand the times when I’ve had a time, fab, wonderful and just plain fun. Most of those; actually, all of those, are the times when the chap and I went somewhere. When we were first together and couldn’t afford much, we went camping in Wales. We actually went to Aberystwyth one year and found we’d pitched our tent between two larger tents that belonged to one family. Bless them, they didn’t mind and no one asked us to move along. Of course now we live in Aber. When we’re walking along the Prom one of us will say, “wouldn’t this be a nice place to go on holiday”, and the other says “we’re not on holiday, we live here”! Oh yes, we’re smug about it.

My parents never took us away on a typical family holiday, the kind that all my school friends went on. Part of it, I suspect, was because of my mother’s fear of being around strangers. Of not knowing how to act, and much of her life was an act. She was terrified that someone would laugh at her for being working class. She would be constantly putting on a good face so no one knew what she really thought. I learned from her and even know I find it hard to allow how I feel inside to show on my face. Anyway, there was that to contend with. We didn’t have a car. That would not really have been a problem because, amazingly, there were these things called trains. But for that, see above. There were the strangers again. And the final problem was that the paterfamilias of the family was a tight old ***. If he could get away with not spending a penny, he would. He could easily afford it, but he refused to spend good money on giving us a holiday.

However,  we actually did manage to go away on holiday twice. Once in Scotland and once in Wales. The trip to Scotland was in the year BNZ (before we emigrated to New Zealand) and the Wales trip was ANZ (after we came back to the UK). I was still at primary school when we went to Scotland for two weeks, so before I was 10 years old; we’ll say I was 8 or 9, and my sister was two years younger. Picture the scene: a scruffy, tiny, turquoise coloured Mini car. Mum, sister, and I in the back seat, father driving, and his sister Aunty M, in the passenger seat. It was her car, do you see? And there was no question of her ever sitting in the back with the children and letting mum sit beside dad. Aunty M and dad puffed on their cigarettes all the way, while we three in the back choked and put up with it. (No opening windows, goodness me, there’d be a draught!)

We travelled the length of Scotland, from Gretna Green to John o’ Groats and back, staying in a different place every night. Mum’s fear of strangers had free reign (sic) and there was a daily tussle over where we would spend the night. She was unhappy about B&Bs because that was too close to the people who owned it. Farms were out for the same reason. And hotels? Let’s not go there. The cost, the people, oh my! There were constant arguments between Aunty M and mum, and dad would always back his sister over his wife. Some days we’d have a few hours where we could get out and do a little sightseeing. Aunty M insisted on my sister and I starting a collection of post cards. She also insisted that we eat cereal and the full cooked breakfast every morning. We had to get our money’s worth, even though they then ran the risk of me being travel sick. I spent most days doped up on travel sick pills. I don’t have many happy memories of those two weeks of hell. It very nearly put me off family holidays altogether.

I think I was 17/18 when we went to Wales. This time dad had bought a car. He’d got into the habit when we were living in New Zealand. There everyone drive, even kids at school. So off we went, on yet another touring holiday, though this time Aunty M did not come with us. There were still arguments between dad and mum, and mum still allowed her stranger anxiety to get the upper hand. I remember that once we had no choice but to stay on a farm and mum was mortified at how friendly the farming couple were. It was almost as though she went around with her self wound up into a tiny ball, and if anyone noticed her she would crumble away. It’s odd, I’m rather shy myself. But I like to talk to strangers, get to know them. It amazes me that I somehow managed to survive mum’s terror without picking up any of it myself.

Wales was lovely, of course. We went to Aberystwyth one day, as I had hoped to go to university there. Dad said that if I did, I’d end up marrying a farmer and move to Wales. I went to college in Birmingham instead, married a Brummie, and oh yes, ended up moving to Wales. I think I fell in love with Aber that day.

The Chap and I have been away sometimes. Not often as his work usually manages to get in the way. But we’ve been to Barcelona, Paris, Lausanne, and Cambridge. We’re going to Lausanne again this year, in the autumn. I wish we could have gone away more often though, especially now that travelling is more of a misery than a pleasure. I do not travel well at my age. But perhaps it is more quality over quantity. We have not been away often, but we always had a lovely time when we did.

(The illustration for this post comes from the cover of “Uncle Paul” by Celia Fremlin.)