Shropshire Magazine

Sun, sea and . . . a snooze.

Be prepared to defend your patch of beach, as cash-strapped Brits swap Fuerteventura for Frinton, Albufeira for Aberdovey, warns Vanessa Lloyd-Thomas

Vanessa Lloyd Thomas.

Don’t you just hate it when somewhere you have always loved going to, or something you have always loved doing, suddenly becomes trendy?

Overnight the little pub that you rely on for a last-minute table is booked up weeks in advance, or the quiet swimming pool where you while away a lazy afternoon is suddenly the unofficial training zone for London 2012 wannabes. 

And now it has happened with holidays! For years I have been happily supporting the UK tourist industry and enjoying the fact that millions of Brits push off to sunnier climes every year and leave a bit more breathing space for the rest of us. 

Happily, the more annoying members of the populace had the greatest propensity to hop off abroad so we managed to spend entire summers without newspapers reporting on the gaffs and musings of politicians, former Big Brother contestants, models and other assorted D-listers. 

Crass

Not so this year. With Nouveau Pauvre replacing Nouveau Riche, everyone is staying at home and saving their pennies. There is even a crass Americanism to describe the fad, which looks set to make it into the Collins English Dictionary – ‘staycationing’. 

Admittedly it is excellent news for the domestic tourism industry, and everyone from tourist boards to guesthouses and visitor destinations are leaping onto the bandwagon. Just Google ‘staycation’ and you’ll be inundated with invitations from ‘Beautiful Brixham, the ultimate staycation destination’, etc. 

But from a purely selfish point of view it is going to be a royal pain in the derrière for those of us used to having this glorious county all to ourselves over summer. Caravans will clutter the roads, queues will form at all those fabulous visitor attractions on our doorstep, and the best restaurants and pubs will be full. 

I suppose I could buck the trend, mortgage my husband and take the children abroad for the summer but – and herein is the sad truth behind my UK holidaying – I loathe and detest planes, airports, customs and everything to do with hurtling through the air in a big metal can. 

It is something that has crept up on me in middle age. As a singleton I was absolutely fine, seeing air travel as part of the holiday excitement. What adventure was to be had, pre budget airlines, buying the cheapest BA ticket available and turning up early dressed to the nines in an attempt to get ‘bumped up’. 

Now, with three children in tow, there is more chance of me being bumped off, rather than invited to sit at the front of the plane for free drinks and fine dining. As a family it’s our lot to sit in the hot, cramped tail section and ride out the turbulence. What fun!

It’s not that I’m particularly scared; more that I, in keeping with many other mothers I have spoken to, have this ridiculous idea that, in the event of a disaster, only I could save my children. Two hands and three children – a problem.

Doom

Never mind that if the plane was hurtling to the ground no amount of hand-holding would help, or that the six-foot-two teenagers would not want to hold my hand under any circumstances including impending doom – or even that all three would probably happily climb over me to safety without a second thought. 

That, of course, is if we actually all make it onto the flight. Twice I have spent the dying hours of family holidays in heated discussions with customs officers at Charles de Gaulle airport. The first time a child’s Mickey Mouse umbrella in my hand luggage looked like a gun to an overzealous female checker. 

“La pièce? Le revolver? Bang bang?” Off I was marched to a private room to unzip my bag and bring out my brolly. It was still deemed offensive and taken away, presumably in case I planned to put it up mid-flight and obstruct the view in economy.

The second time I was daft enough to take a child’s plastic Mickey Mouse gun into the airport and try to use my extremely limited French to explain that I wanted to hand it over and reclaim it in Manchester. How we all chuckled at the financial cost of doing that! 

On reflection how bad can a few queues and caravans be? Maybe I’ll see you this summer in some favoured corner of our on-trend county!