Shame about the kids
Clare De Burca
THE video finally flickers to life and a shot of my father-in-law's nose is followed by a tiled terrace, steps down to a turquoise swimming pool and green fields beyond. In the distance, blue-grey hills meet bright blue sky. This was the vista from our holiday villa in Majorca last year. We stayed in the north of the island between Pollensa, tucked into the base of the mountains, and the walled town of Alcudia. Alcudia's beach is long, sandy and bustling with families; the beach at Porta Pollensa is most memorable for the view of the marina full of fabulous yachts. Further afield, after precipitous drives across mountains, we were often rewarded with those perfect moments when you turn a corner and discover blue sea, sheer cliffs and a small shimmer of pale sand — and another one of those fabulous yachts.
It should have been absolutely idyllic. In years to come it will be; we will look back at the photos and remember this holiday as a blissful, sunny family experience. We will forget that we did as many household chores as we do at home — shopping, cooking, washing up, changing nappies and having disciplinary skirmishes with our son. The happy family holiday is a myth. For parents, the holiday part is entirely destroyed by the children and all the work that entails, uprooted and repotted for a week or two somewhere away from the amenities of home.
In the last two years we've been away twice with other couples and, most recently, with my husband's family. I have now concluded that hell may not be other people but it could well be their children, and I'm sure that our son was not always a source of delight to our companions. The same reservations apply to other people's parents — even my husband's. Being with them is like going to work: it's interesting, even stimulating for a few days, but by the end of the week you just want to get off home and get drunk.
Some parents have cottoned on to how grim it all is. I mentioned the idea once to my mother, in a fug of guilt about favouring one family over the other, and was surprised to see her blanch and start stammering about personal space.
The only ones who enjoy it at all are the children. As a young girl, I adored our family holidays. My mother says that on one miserable 1970s camping holiday in the New Forest, blighted by constant and torrential rain, she and Dad decided halfway through that we were going home. Inexplicably, my younger brother and I were devastated, and begged them (successfully) to reconsider.
Now that I am a mother myself, I can appreciate the sacrifices made by my parents for us on summer holidays. Earlier this year, as we holidayed in a cloudy Dordogne with half of Surrey, we managed a bitter smile at the knowledge that our son's temperament and skin tone were more suited to the Manchesteresque climate rather than the blistering heat we'd hoped for. We stayed in a village called Allemans, distinguished by its local bar, Le Arsenic, which conformed to the stereotype: strange dark wood and Formica decor, pinball machine and table football, two blokes permanently at a corner table, smoking stoically, and walleyed, monosyllabic staff. It was wonderful.
The nearby River Drone is cool, clear, perfect for swimming. Despite this, the awful reality of the hilarious holiday-fromhell stories we'd starred in as children were revealed. I, for one, will no longer laugh when my mother tells of the time I vanished for two hours in a crowded street carnival. Now I realise that when people say things like, 'In Europe children always go to restaurants with their parents. It's a family culture — so much more civilised', what they really mean is that all meals out will be accompanied by the sound of children howling, whining, vomiting, vanishing or trashing the restaurant.
How I have longed, as my son howled at the sun, for the holidays of my single years. In those days I eschewed sites of cultural and geographical significance in favour of sunbathing and poisoning myself with vile local spirits brewed in sewers and guaranteed to cause dementia. I do not recall, on any of these holidays, having to trawl French supermarkets looking for the local equivalent of Sudocrem and cheesy Quavers.
My family holidays have their consolations, though. My husband brought his copy of the Larousse Guide to Wine to France. I felt a little as though I'd accidentally gone on holiday with Keith Floyd, as he pored over it, dragged me round endless châteaux, and then somehow produced wonderful meals despite being so pissed that he couldn't turn the oven on without assistance; but I couldn't fault the quality of the wine we drank. And in Majorca the in-laws were a delight with their grandson and heir. The sight of mother-in-law topless, granny baps swinging joyously in the sun, did prove a little daunting, but then she is descended from a long line of artists and poets. I may come from more suburban stock, but perhaps all these communal family holidays will put me in touch with my inner bohemian, too.
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