France seven years ago: one of only two days we did not receive rain of biblical proportions.
I am looking down the barrel of two fast-approaching weeks of annual leave, which means I am compelled to start Planning Our Holiday. If there is a more stressful way of spending three week’s salary, I can't think of it. How do you choose between literally millions of options?
The trouble is that most people’s concept of a pleasant way to spend a week off fills me with dread. I genuinely envy those sunny-natured souls who are happy as long as their holiday involves a pool, a sunlounger and a variety of brightly coloured cocktails. Unfortunately I am cursed with a low boredom threshold, a mistrust of swimwear and a dislike of sweaty strangers in close proximity to me. (Imagine Eeyore in a sarong.)
I'm never going camping either, despite my husband’s pleas. There is no way I'm sleeping on the ground, with naught but a thin piece of nylon separating me from a hostile world, the nearest toilet a field away by torchlight. If those conditions occurred in normal life it would be considered a humanitarian crisis.
I've had some great holidays afloat, to be fair, but narrowboat hire is eye-wateringly expensive and can be ruined by wet weather. It’s very hard to feel carefree in a cagoule. Canals are also full of self-righteous real ale drinkers with bad beards and worse hats, always ready to tell you when you’re using your windlass wrong (until the offending tool is swung at them at head level.)
Because we live in a tiny village where an unfamiliar dog is something to be remarked upon, I don't want to go anywhere too rural; we might as well just be at home with the central heating turned up. Obviously Butlins, and middle-class Butlins AKA Center Parcs, are out of the question if you’re not a parent. Long-haul destinations are full of snakes, Canada full of bears, America full of Americans.
Maybe I should just stick a pin in a map. Ah, fantastic - glamorous Rotterdam, here we come!
