With the premature arrival of winter – it’s still autumn, the meteorological version, until a week Sunday – I have found myself dreaming of warmer climes. I managed to make it until the middle of November this year still wearing shorts, including urgent supermarket trips, because part of me wants to maintain the pretence that, somehow, it’s still summer. The heavy snowfall in Bristol earlier this week, which pitched only briefly, made my decision for me. I reckon I need a holiday.
At this point, you’d be forgiven for pointing out that life these days for me is one long holiday. I don’t actually bother with work – stop sniggering at the back, ex work colleagues – and I have all the time in the world. It’s just that I would rather like to be somewhere a bit warmer. Since just a month ago I was somewhere warmer, a Canary island, it’s fair to say I have got a bit of a cheek.
So, dreaming of holidays to escape the long winter gloom has become a bit of a hobby. And one place I have been looking for holiday tips is the travel section of the online Guardian. Frankly, I am not impressed.
The whole point to me of a holiday is to go somewhere warmer, somewhere you are more or less guaranteed settled weather and that you can sit, or preferably lie, in the sun. But just look at these suggestions:
- Your favourite Nordic winter trips
- A winter stay in remote Scotland
- A magical winter cottage in Cornwall (with no wi fi or phone signal)
- My ideal winter cottage in North Wales
And so on. It all seems rather nice, I must admit, and together with my partner we have come up with a few suggestions for the short term, with lodges in places like Cumbria and Scotland. I find the idea of snuggling up in front of a warm fire, reading a few books with a bottle of single malt close at hand, more than a little appealing, but I keep coming back to the weather. A bracing walk in the country in mid December is one thing but a walk along the beach in a Canary island appeals far more. And, absurdly, the latter is far, far cheaper.
When someone says to me, “We’re going skiing after Christmas,” my first reaction is to say, “I’m so sorry to hear that. Couldn’t you find anywhere warm to go?” And given that everyone I know seems to break something when they are on the piste, I think I’d rather sink an ice cold cerveza while I am on the piss. I know it must be me because many thousands of people enjoying skiing. I could not think of anything worse, apart that is from visiting the theme parks of Florida, in any kind of weather.
The precise dictionary definition of a holiday is, “a time when someone does not go to work or school but is free to loaf about in the sun all day, reading books, listening to music and drinking cold beer.” You will struggle to find an actual dictionary that uses those exact words, but if I compiled one, that’s what it would say. A holiday for me is by and large not doing very much and me becoming a darker shade of pale. The fear of frostbite does not translate into a holiday, at least not for me.
The reality is that I’ll carry on daydreaming for the warmer days that are a mere – Jesus – four or five months away. And I doubt whether I shall be getting my tips from the Guardian travel section which only seems to want me to get even colder. Sod that.
