Long, long ago, on a campsite far, far away, I met a holiday friend called Claire. She had long brown hair and was from Ireland or England – I wasn’t old enough to distinguish accents. I had spent two days sitting on the steps of our mobile home looking across
For five years in a row, we took the ferry to France, then last year, for the first time since having kids, we braved getting on a plane, and we did it again this year. Throughout the journey, I couldn’t help comparing flight and ferry in my head, so in
If I’d married someone just like me, we’d have gone on holidays to Italy (we did), to a campsite (we did), to drink Prosecco on the deck every night (we did). But being married to that person just like me would have meant quite a different holiday for the kids
Sitting on the deck at half past midnight, I can hear Killing Me Softly wafting across the campsite, to the background sound of waves washing up on the sand. I’m finishing a glass of red wine and thinking about closing my book. The candle flickers in the darkness, and I
The voice in my ear gives me the go ahead – I’ve completed my self-imposed time running on roads and forest paths, now Runkeeper says I can go onto the beach. I turn and run towards the gate. “Buongiorno,” says the security guard. “Buongiorno,” I reply, in my Irish accent. I
Eight years ago, I went along to the Saturday Night Show in RTÉ, and came away with a one-for-everybody-in-the-audience night in a hotel. So we duly booked our night, and headed off to Clane with our then seven-month-old. We weren’t quite sure how staying in hotels with babies worked, but
Two things we didn’t consider when we booked our holiday this year: 1. Italy can be very hot in July (subsequent raised eyebrows and “Italy in July? With small kids? Really?” comments did hammer this home) 2. Our campsite, Norcenni Girasole, is inland – way inland – sitting prettily in the hills
Our holiday was 80% amazing, and 20% hot-sticky-cross-cranky. Or at specific moments, 80% hot-sticky-cross-cranky and 20% I’m a parent, get me out of here. There’s the stuff that can happen on any holiday – even before kids, or when they’re older and a trip away (presumably) becomes a relaxing event. Like
The sun was shining when we made our booking to go glamping. So of course, we assumed it would be shining during the actual glamping. A bit like when we have a week of good weather, and you picture the whole summer rolling out in similar sunshine. Or at least
Recently, I asked my seven-year-old if she remembered Sequoia Parc, the campsite we stayed in, two years ago in France. “Of course I do – it had a dragon pirate ship thing beside the pool,” she said. “No,” I said, “That was Clarys Plage, last year.” She was sure I was wrong.
Twenty-six years ago, my parents took the ferry to France and made their way down to St Jean de Monts, with four of us rattling around in the back-seat. The roof-rack that held our suitcases was covered in water-proof tarpaulin, secured with rope. My parents found their way by following a
All the talk after the first kids’ club visit was about Darragh-from-Dublin. Or Mr. Pilkington as he was known by those in the know. Emmie had gone on her own for this first visit, but her enthusiastic stories of painting and treasure hunts and Darragh-from-Dublin were enough to convince Clara
Every year, bright-eyed and innocent, I look forward to going away on holidays – to reading and relaxing and resting, and to getting lots of sleep and sun. And every year, I am yet again taken by surprise to find that the holiday isn’t quite the chilled out, easygoing, restful
Holidaying with a toddler is kind of a contradiction in terms – if you expect, that is, for a holiday to be a relaxing affair. If you like high-octane adventure holidays, where you come home exhausted after two weeks of running, climbing and water-based-activities, then of course, holidaying with a
So, inspired by a recent Huff Post Parenting article called “Moms, put on that swimsuit!“, I’ve decided to show solidarity; I’m sharing some photos of myself at the pool. I’m kidding. Of course I’m not going to do that. I’m not insane. Like the mum who wrote the article, I
“Thinking of taking the ferry to France?” I said. “Here are some tips!” I said, like a girl who knows a thing or two about driving to France. Then this year happened. It started out really well – too well really. We were more organised than ever, and managed to
“That’s where I got my passport photos mum, isn’t it?” said Emmie who is five, as we walked past our local Fuji photo shop last Friday. “Yep, that’s right – we’ll have to make sure we all bring our passports when we go on holidays next week, won’t we!” I
From sandals to boots overnight – summer is a goner. And we’re all fine with that; as a nation we’ve agreed that we can’t complain, because the summer was just so good this year (by nation I mean three real-life conversations plus the general consensus on Twitter) I’m thinking back
The ferry never changes. The familiar smell of exhausts as engines are switched off and families squeeze between rows of roof-box-topped cars to reach the entry doors. The staff with genuine smiles waiting to greet us and help tiny children clamber up the steep steps. The sense of relief when
We’ve just returned home from what has been our best holiday ever. We say that every year of course, and it usually takes a few months and a healthy dose of hindsight to admit that two weeks in a damp mobile home while it rained almost every day was not