The countdown has begun for us: we’re into the second half of summer term and I am madly trying to plan things to keep The Girls occupied for the nine weeks that they get. Our actual holiday- the one DH has booked time off for- has been in the diary for nine months. We are very excited to be heading to Norway to camp in the night-time sun. The Girls are less enthused. They have friends who have booked a great August holiday this year: they’ve talked about it endlessly in the playground and it seems the whole class is up in arms that they are being dragged on planes, cars and trains to foreign climes when the best fun to be had will be right here in the UK.
I remember that feeling growing up. I lived in Cyprus- an actual tourist destination- but to me it might well have been Shepshed or Milton Keynes or Giggleswick *. I didn’t see the sun, sea and sand that others back home in Blighty craved. I didn’t care that we were staying in cute fishing villages and picturesque mountainside hotels smothered in Bougainvillea. Instead I heard of cousins who would be camping and caravaning. They were going to have a fantastic summer bank holiday, and all I got was a trip to the beach with sunset BBQ thrown in!
Perspective is a funny thing. Likewise, I have strong recollections of wanting the holidays to last forever; to put off schools and classrooms and lessons for as long as possible. Now that I have children of my own, I find the tables turned: they want holiday and I wish for term time. They do say the grass is always greener.
*other destinations are available: these were the first three place names I plucked from my brain!