This week’s newsflash from the research world comes from the land of canals and cafes with suspicious aromas. Slide into those clogs and slap on the sunscreen, because academics at a Dutch university have confirmed that we’d all feel a whole lot better if we went on holiday more often. They’ve obviously never vacationed with my brood.
In the summer we blew the overdraft abroad, so last week we decided to stay closer to home for the half term break. After the usual Olympic endeavour that ends with me winning a Gold medal in Heavyweight Suitcase Shutting, we set off in a northerly direction.
On the first night, we stopped at a picturesque hotel on the banks of Loch Tay. The Tourism Gods shone down on us as we relaxed outside on a terrace overlooking the water. Time to exhale. Relax. Revel in the serenity.
‘Mu-u-u-u-m,’ said Low the Younger (nine). I immediately switched to maternal high alert given that the number of vowels is in direct proportion to how much trouble he thinks he’s in.
‘I’ve locked the keys in the car.’
In a perplexing feat, he’d retrieved a can of Pedigree Chum from the boot, then pressed the automatic locking button to close it, leaving the keys inside with all our worldly possessions. Thankfully, we’d already removed Murphy the labradoodle.
After a failed attempt at breaking and entering by the AA, we slept in our clothes and woke up with dodgier breath than the dog.
By noon, a friend had brought the spare key from home and we travelled the last fourteen miles to our destination. Husband was unusually quiet until he turned to me with eyes glistening, clearly moved by the beauty of the scenery. My romance anticipation antennae began to bleep like a reversing bin lorry as I prepared myself for loving words.
‘Have you got any painkillers? That filling I got last week is killing me,’ he blurted.
I knew the situation was critical when he proceeded to delve into my handbag without the aid of a biohazard suit, popped a Paracetamol, then insisted we track down an emergency dentist.
On day three, the holiday spirit, the sunshine, and the antibiotics for husband’s abscess finally kicked in. Energised and happy, the junior Lows spent endless hours enjoying water sports on the Loch.
Later that night, I was just drifting off in a wee bubble of bliss when I was woken by ten-year-old Low the Elder. ‘Mu-u-u-u-m.’ Cue return of maternal alert as I immediately realised that his vowels were in proportion to how bad he was feeling.
‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’
There was a two-word reply: Projectile. Vomit.
I spent the next thirty-six hours impersonating Florence Nightingale. If Flo was a slightly cranky Scottish woman who forced the brave warriors in the Crimea to watch back-to-back instalments of Star Wars, while she broke off from a Jackie Collins bonkbuster to rub their hair and blurt, ‘Are you feeling any better yet?’ on a ten-minute loop.
On day five, all pain and illness abated, legions of pals arrived to meet us. By nightfall, there was a veritable clan. That’s when it happened. ‘I’ve booked a treat for us,’ husband announced.
Cue yet another traumatic event. White-water rafting, during which – sob – they made me pour my considerable curves into a wetsuit.
I won’t comment any further, other than to say that we now have physical evidence of the stretch capacity of rubber, and there’s a legendary creature in a loch slightly further north who may have a lookalike pal to keep her company.
On day seven, as we drove home in the pouring rain, I reflected that friends, family and sunshine had made our trip unforgettable. But I’ve decided to ignore the research that says we should vacation more often. For the sake of our health, my ego, our bank balance and the poor souls who were forced to witness an enraged, chunky tourist in a wetsuit rising from the deep, I’ll be parking my clogs at home for the foreseeable future.