Chapter 27

‘We’re all going on a summer holiday.’

The alien observers on Beta Arietis were puzzled and, despite the evidence that would flow their way across time and space for another six decades, they wouldn’t be able to find a theory that convincingly explained what was happening on an annual basis on one of their favourite and most intriguing planets; the one they’d identified as Earth.   Ali argued that it was a migration pattern, driven by weather patterns whilst Sam favoured a ritual, possibly religious in origin.  Neither could agree why it was that hordes of the inhabitants of the island they knew as Britain would leave perfectly good homes for a week or two each year in exchange for a tiny fabric shelter, or a small metal box on wheels, or even one of many rather cramped, identical rooms in a much larger building.

There were some commonalties: usually they seemed to be drawn to the coastlines; usually the migration coincided with the summer months, and almost every time it involved the whole family,  travelling light, taking virtually no possessions along on the trip.  Closer study would also reveal some evolving trends: the distances and locations were slowly becoming longer and more diverse, the frequency and length becoming higher and more varied.

The local Arietisian university agreed to their request to fund a longitudinal study and they decided that the focal point for their research would once again be the same typical family they’d observed recently watching the 1959 Cup Final with a newborn baby tucked in the corner of the room.  Recognising that they needed some sensible boundaries around this latest project they decided to limit it to just three generations spanning roughly sixty earth years.

Generation One

There wasn’t much to go at first especially for the post-war period that covered the late forties and the fifties.  Meticulously labelled albums of small square black and white photographs; a child’s memory of hearing grandparents reminiscences about ‘that glorious summer at Mablethorpe’ or ‘that awful guesthouse with the rude landlady’ or ‘your grandparents would walk along the front every evening’.   Actually the family holiday concept for this generation only really applied to my maternal grandparents, Harry and Ethel.  Dad’s parents, Dud and Mabel, didn’t seem to go in for it, probably because they couldn’t afford to take three children away on Dud’s wages as a bus conductor.

Living in Nottingham ensured the east coast would be the favoured holiday destination with the string of resorts spreading southwards from Lincolnshire to Norfolk: Mablethorpe, Chapel St Leonards, Sutton-on-Sea, Skegness, Hunstanton, Cromer, all received a visit from the Anthony family during the late forties and fifties.  Not ones for holiday camps, it must have been hit and miss when choosing a guest house, based purely on a brochure with no Trip Advisor rating system to offer an opinion.  What did ‘sea-view’ really mean? How far was it really to the Prom?  Did ‘a la carte’ really offer a decent choice?  It would only be for a week each year but over these two decades they must have walked miles along windy promenades gazing out across the groyne-protected beaches to the brown, chilly waters of the North Sea, hired hundreds of deck chairs on which to relax and read the paper or do the puzzles, and eaten thousands of ice-creams.  Often accompanied by her cousin, my godmother Joan, and her parents Uncle Ernest (Ethel’s brother) and Aunty Doris, Mum would at least have had a playmate to share riding the donkeys or playing on the beach with.

It must have been something of a change to the normal holiday routines for them when Dad made his first appearance in 1954; presumably that meant an extra room and another place at the dinner table.  Up until then Dad’s holiday experiences were largely limited to Boys Brigade camps on the Isle of Wight, or cycling between youth hostels with a mate.  I wonder if Dad managed to rub along okay with the prospective in-laws for a whole week without ruffling any feathers?  It must have been a real liberation when my parents finally broke the shackles of Harry and Ethel and managed to go on holiday by themselves or with a couple of friends.

Generation Two.

Now let’s fast forward a few years to the early sixties and the young couple with a toddler experimenting with both a new holiday location and a new accommodation experience; it was time to head west and replace the guest house with a caravan site.  First stop was Lydstep Haven near Tenby and a shiny white static caravan: apparently a great success despite me going down with a fever which necessitated a panicky trip to a local doctor. 

With Jackie and Rick’s arrival over the next few years, it was a while before our family routine finally settled on the blueprint it would follow for the rest of the decade.  A fortnight in June to Devon, or increasingly a bit further south to Cornwall, and then during the first week in September a short-trip to Sutton-on-Sea to link up with Harry and Ethel.  I don’t recall my grandparents being very active when it came to sandcastle construction but I’m sure we were all grateful for the steady stream of donkey rides, ice creams and the supervisory duties they provided when we ventured to the large paddling pool to sail toy boats.  

For sure we all appreciated the sanctuary from the chilly east coast winds provided by the little hut, rather grandly described as a chalet, that they’d hired for the week on the prom.  Here were housed the deck chairs, a small stove to make cups of tea and somewhere to get changed and eat the sandwiches without getting sand everywhere.  If it wasn’t a day for the beach, we’d walk, be pushed or carried along the front all the way to the intriguingly named Sandilands where a fleet of dinghies and yachts sat in a small marina or were stacked above the tide-line on the beach, their rigging and flags rattling in the omnipresent wind. The return drive to Nottingham across the flat, arable landscape of Lincolnshire became an imbedded memory; it was a time when farmers burnt the stubble in the fields and our late summer evening journey was guided home by the glow of their fires and the harvest moon setting ahead of us.

The  build-up to the annual June holiday followed its own distinct timetable with a checklist we came to recognise.  It began shortly after Christmas was out of the way when the brochures would start arriving, requested by post from the small ads in the Radio Times or Sunday supplements and within a few weeks we’d be informed that this year we’d be staying in a farmhouse near Brixham, borrowing a family tent to camp at Mullion on The Lizard, or were off to a caravan site at Mother Ivy’s Bay close to Padstow.  ‘Brilliant!  How many weeks away was it?’  At some point there’d be mention of something called a ‘holiday form’ which had to be given to your teacher but these never seemed to generate the same grudging approval or downright resistance that is the usual response from schools today.  Not to my knowledge anyway.

We knew the countdown was entering its final stages when distinct piles of towels and clothes started to appear on the landing and, with just days to go, Dad would go up in the loft to lower a huge wooden trunk festooned with leather straps and brass buckles down through the hatch.  Into this sixties equivalent of a Thule roof box would be squeezed everything a family of five might need to wear over a fortnight and the night before we set off it was somehow magicked onto the ancient roof rack on the car and tied down with some old rope.  Everything else had to be rammed into the boot; all the beach paraphernalia, assorted toys and the food we were taking.  A vital step before launch was to confirm the navigational system was loaded with the correct directions.  This involved a meticulous set of notes of road numbers, distances and timings all prepared in Dad’s neat handwriting with the help of the AA route finding service.  Take  A429 Fosseway to Cirencester, then A38 Bridgewater to Taunton, then A30 to Bodmin etc etc.  This was his task. 

Mum, on the other hand, had the job of choosing us a treat; the summer special edition of various comics we happened to be reading that year.  Inevitably it was ‘Jackie’ for Jackie whilst I’d be happy with ‘Shoot’ and Rick might end up with ‘The Beano.’  The last check before the crew were loaded into their seats was to ensure the stock of barley sugars was fully primed and the I-Spy Book of the Road was available for use when boredom levels approached a danger point.

It was a long old drive down to the south-west from Nottingham, before the M5 and its associated traffic jams became a feature of such trips from the mid-seventies onwards.  It wouldn’t take long for the doziness of a pre-dawn start to turn into mid-morning excitement before morphing slowly into bored afternoon fractiousness.  Without any artificial assistance from story-tapes, Gameboys or our own mobile phones, Mum would have to steadily work through her distraction toolkit; AA/RAC-box football, I-Spy, and our portfolio of favourite car songs.  It’s a wonder Dad managed to concentrate on driving with three kids leaping around in the back belting out ‘Lily the Pink’ (‘Jennifer Eccles had terrible freckles’ and what on earth did ‘efficacious’ mean?) or the latest summer hit from The Monkees, Herman’s Hermits or The Tremoloes.  Eventually, late in the day, after the a final rendition of ‘Three Wheels On My Wagon’  Dad would lay down the challenge.

‘Who can see the sea first?’

And we would finally pull into the caravan site or farmyard.  Too tired to argue much about who had the top bunk (me) we’d be packed off to bed whilst Mum and Dad compared the reality of what they found with the image portrayed in the brochure and then set about the task of unloading the car’s contents into the, no-doubt inadequate, storage space.  So followed a fortnight that blended together plenty of beach time, some compulsory cliff walks, several strolls around various harbours, a boat trip, and inevitably some days when the rain would confine us to indoor board games.  Like most families on the beach, we indulged in various must-do activities that became more sophisticated the older we became. 

Once the windbreak and groundsheet had laid claim to a spot somewhere above the tide line and sheltered by the rocks and cliffs, it was time to get to work with the bucket and spades.  The first task was invariably to construct a sandcastle which, over the years grew in size and grandeur and our futile defence of it against the incoming tide more vigorous.  We excavated tunnels, cheering when we managed to shake hands with our opposite tunneller and successfully roll a tennis balls through.  We’d fashion a motor-boat out the sand with seats for all of us and inevitably, at some point during the fortnight, we’d select Jackie to be ‘buried’ in the sand.  After sandwiches and a packet of Smiths crisps we’d dig into the large brown canvas beach bag and out would come the bat and ball for French cricket.

‘Can’t be out first ball!’

‘That got you!’

‘No it didn’t.’

If they had the energy, Mum and Dad might try and play each other at ‘Jokari’, using paddle bats to bash a tennis ball attached to a long elasticated band, but invariably the band would have perished from the previous year and would regularly snap.  And of course there was the sea; no wetsuits for kids in those days but certainly on the sunny days we’d be in there to play in the waves or bob around on the Lilo if it was calm.  I’d proudly carried a hardboard surfboard, which Dad had painted a bright orange with a black ’S” on, down from the carpark, even at the age of eight, thinking I was some cool surf dude like the I’d seen in the magazines and surf book Joan had sent me from Australia.  By the end of the decade there were three such boards to be packed into the boot.

Eventually the tide would come in, the sun would drop, we’d be getting hungry, sun burnt or chilly and would reluctantly pack everything up for the trudge back up the path.  Sand in the sandals and the small grains still stuck on your legs would need to be brushed off properly back at base, or picked off like scabs later in bed.  We’d eat-in virtually every night so Mum usually had to crack on with preparing tea whilst Dad sorted out the beach kit. Once a year, as a treat, we might visit a restaurant; the Mullion Galleon was a favourite.  Hardly glamorous, it was a diner with formica tables and hard wooden chairs, but a highlight to enjoy sausage beans and chips in a real restaurant with waitress service.

The last few days would pass in a rush; a final day on the beach before using the leftover ‘holiday money’ that the grandparents had given us to buy some small memento from a gift shop.  I once bought a shell ‘you could hear the sea in’ which ended up on the bedroom windowsill for years.  And then it was home-time; a journey that seemed to take longer, involved more traffic jams and held the unappetising prospect of a return to school.  Finally pulling up on the drive, Mum would usually comment on ‘how much the grass has grown’, whilst we quickly settled back into the familiarity of our own rooms.  Back at school I’d swop stories with a few friends, slightly envious of Robbo whose family would drive to Spain and who would return with a bull-fighting sword and sombrero to display in his bedroom and describe seeing fish ‘just like in Jacques Cousteau’ when snorkelling around the rocks.

For a number of years we holidayed in the same location as the Machin family.  Colin and Sheila were great friends from Ranmore Close, although they moved to Bristol ten years later, and their daughter Claire was Jackie’s age and son Tim was a year older than Rick.  

Brian Haemorrhage

I’m pretty sure I was the only kid in the class who could spell ‘haemorrhage’ when we returned to school after our early summer holiday in June 1970 and were asked to write about what we’d done during the break.  The following morning the teacher asked me if my Dad was okay, kindly told me that I’d spelt ‘brian’ when it should have been ‘brain’ and added that Mr Bowers, the Head, wanted to see me straight after assembly.  I didn’t particularly like him but on this occasion he was sympathetic and wanted to know how Jackie and I were being looked after.  Later that day he gave me a letter for Harry and Ethel although I’ve no idea what it contained.

It had been a holiday of two parts.  With the Machins we were sharing a wonderful, ancient farm cottage, complete with low ceilings and creaking floorboards and surrounded by flowering hedges, borders and lawns.  It was named ‘Gwavas’ and was located just a couple of miles from Cadgwith on the south-east corner of The Lizard, a short walk to the coast and a hidden path that led down the steep cliffs to a small cove.  Throughout the first week we’d ticked off the usual spots and activities; the weather had been kind and the mood was relaxed; especially as there was a TV.  England’s World Cup build up was going well having shaken off the Bobby Moore Bogota fix-up and I only needed Alan Ball and Alan Mullery to complete the set of Esso coins; at least we’d be able to watch the key matches. 

Dad, using his Rolls-Royce connections, had also managed to fix up a tour for himself and Colin of the Culdrose Naval Base which was a few miles up the road near Helston and from which the helicopters flew constantly during the day on training fights and the occasional air-sea rescue mission. I was deemed old enough and enthusiastic enough to join them as we whizzed around the base in a land-rover.  Dad might have been most interested in the engine maintenance workshop but for me it was the stand-by room where the Sea-King crew waited in readiness for the emergency calls, or the hanger where I was allowed to clamber into the pilot seat of a Wessex. 

These were the people I’d watched from the cliffs most summers at the RNLI Display Days, the winch-man dropping like a spider from the hovering aircraft onto the surface of the sea to pluck a casualty to safety and then carefully lowering him to the Lizard lifeboat which had just been spectacularly launched down its ramp in response to the orange flares in the sky.  That year the shell lost its pride of place on the window sill and was replaced by some bits of a turbine blade I was given at Culdrose and my Apollo 13 mission badge I’d sent off for from NASA.   Aged eleven, I was a shoe-in for a career as a navy pilot, just like my hero, Jim Lovell, who only six weeks earlier I’d watched, riveted, as he’d brought his stricken spacecraft safely back to earth. 

The middle Sunday was hot; I’d run along the road to buy the Sunday paper and we’d all spent the morning playing or reading in the garden.  After a big roast Sunday, lunch Dad volunteered to accompany us kids down to the cove whilst the others cleared up, planning to join us for a swim shortly.  It was straight into the sea to cool down, but it was still only early June and without any waves or wetsuits we didn’t stick it for long.

‘Pete, I’m not feeling good.’ Dad looked odd, sitting slouched on a rock, head hung and the towel draped across his sagging shoulders.  ‘Can you head back up and get the others - quickly?’

I struggled to make out what he was saying.

I presume I said something to Jackie and Claire before heading for the path but I don’t think I’d gone far before, fortunately, higher up the cliff I could see Colin already making his way down to the beach, followed further back by Mum and Sheila.

‘Uncle Colin! Dad’s ill or something! He wants you quick. I’m going to tell Mum.’

By the time the adults had arrived and assessed the situation it was clear things were serious. What the hell was a ‘stroke’ that they kept mentioning? How could he get off the beach? He certainly couldn’t walk!

Things became a bit blurred.  Dad’s memory of the incident is largely anecdotal and sadly I never asked the other adults about the specifics of the next few hours whilst I had the chance.  What is clear is that as Sheila shepherded all the children back to the house, Colin and Mum had fortuitously managed to flag down a couple of fishermen in little motor boat that was chugging past the cove on its way back to Cadgwith.   I watched from the cliff as they pulled onto the beach and bundled Dad and Mum on board before setting off back around the headland.  Colin meanwhile stormed back up the path, jumped in the car and drove down to Cadgwith, somehow alerting the local doctor in the process.

We waited.  Seeking distraction with the toy that was the craze that summer, Jackie and I threw our new red Frisbee endlessly back and forth across the garden.

Meanwhile Dad had been carted up the harbour slipway and laid out on a bench in a fishing shed which is where the doctor found him half-an-hour later.  The decision was made to take him back to the farmhouse by ambulance and ‘see what happened’ over the next ‘critical’ twenty-four hours: apparently the hour long drive to Truro hospital was deemed too risky.  By morning he’d lost use of his left-side and could barely speak, although the medication appeared to have helped ease the headache.  Over the next couple of days, the doctor came regularly and, whilst Colin tried to keep five kids entertained (luckily they had a big car), Mum and Sheila adopted nursing duties.  By mid-week it was decided that he needed transferring to the hospital in Truro and we followed behind the ambulance as it weaved along the Cornish roads, occasionally making use of its blue-light.  He didn’t stay in Truro long and was transferred to a specialist unit at Plymouth Hospital the following weekend whilst, in parallel, the plan to get us home was underway.  Mum would stay in Plymouth, whilst Colin and Sheila (who’d only passed her test a fortnight earlier) would drive the rest of us in the two cars back to their home in Bristol.  After an overnight stop Colin would ferry the three of us back to Bramcote where Harry and Ethel would take up residence to look after us.

I was a mixture of emotions; annoyed that Dad had messed up the holidays; scared that he might die, although no-one had yet discussed that possibility with us; a bit miffed about the prospect of several weeks being looked after by the grandparents,  (How would they cope with getting us to all the activities we did at home?)  And what about the football?  Would I be home to watch us play Brazil on Sunday evening? How was I going to watch the matches in hospital visitor rooms?  And the missing World Cup coins?  I’d already tried Colin’s patience by asking him to keep driving in search of an Esso garage whilst his car was already in the red on the fuel gauge.

I didn’t really appreciate Colin and Sheila’s huge support at the time.  I was just glad that we arrived home on Sunday afternoon and the fact Colin then had to drive all the way back down to Bristol didn’t cross my mind.  My main priority was ensuring that the grandparents didn’t impose some dogmatic ‘bed-time’ and prevent me staying up to watch the Brazil game.  Luckily they didn’t, probably too wrapped up in their concerns for Dad’s condition, sorting out our holiday things and ensuring our school clothes were ready for the morning.  It was a great game, even on a black and white telly, and no-one will ever forget Gordon Banks save from Pele’s header or the Jeff Astle miss that consigned us to play West Germany in the quarter-finals. (Watch it on YouTube).

A week later and the news from Plymouth was slightly more hopeful; they’d decided against operating to ease the pressure in the brain and it appeared that the drugs were helping. The plan was to keep him in for a few more weeks of careful monitoring and make a start on the paralysis and speech problems.  With Dad apparently out of immediate danger, Mum caught the train home, probably much to the relief of Harry and Ethel.  It was a good job Dad wasn’t well enough to watch the quarter-final against West Germany as we managed to squander a two-nil lead with only twenty minutes to go, thanks to Bonetti letting a feeble shot under his body and then two soft goals from Seeler and Muller.  I still can’t help gnashing my teeth every time I see that third goal and the German celebrations.  Whilst on holiday we’d be given a little ‘pointer’ by the adults who had taken an unusual circumstance to illustrate the fact that, despite what we might read in comics, see on films, or act out in the playground, not all Germans were ‘bad Germans’.

There had been a piano at the house and one evening Jackie and Claire were attempting to play some classical tunes - with the French windows open the music was heard by the quiet, polite chap who was the gardener/handyman for the property and lived in an adjacent caravan. He wandered over to ask if he could come in and listen.  It transpired he was a German POW who had decided to stay in the UK, although before the war he’d been a professional musician with a German orchestra.  It wasn’t long before his violin had appeared and we were entertained by what sounded like a virtuoso performance from him on both piano and strings.

Even so I’m not sure I was so willing to accept that Gerd Muller could be classed as a ‘good’ German as England tumbled out the World Cup.

Another few weeks and Dad was transferred back to Nottingham City hospital, courtesy of Rolls-Royce who managed to classify a flight of the company executive jet from Hucknall (Nottingham) aerodrome to Plymouth and back as a training flight.  It was the only time he ever flew on the jet, not normally being senior enough, but to cap it off, they flew Mum down and back as a surprise and, amazingly, our neighbour, Jean Farmer, who’d given Mum a lift to the airport, and had accepted the impromptu offer of a flight as well. Within another month he was home, the only lasting reminder being a difficulty in throwing a ball with his left hand, and as far as I was concerned life settled back to normal.

Time for a change.

I’ve no idea wanted prompted the change but our next two Summer excursions were to Guernsey. We’d drive to Weymouth, travel as passengers on the ferry and stay in a holiday flat, using the local buses to travel around the first year, and hiring a car the next.  Apart from us all being horribly seasick on a stormy first crossing, we enjoyed our time there.  With its blue sea, steep cliffs and surf beaches, it offered the same attractions as Cornwall, although its distinctive Channel Island character and recent history offered some subtle differences.  The Machins joined us in 1972; I was beginning to realise they must be slightly better off than us because they arrived by air and stayed in more luxurious accommodation.  On each holiday, we’d take a boat trip from St Peter Port to the smaller nearby island of Herm and picnic on a near deserted beach.  I’d never have guessed that fifteen years later, Sue and I would repeat the trip with Guernsey residents, my new step-brother John and Mags, his new wife, in her father’s small motor boat and, later that evening, eat the barbecued sea bass he’d caught earlier in the day.  Equally as memorable was the Pye transistor radio I bought whilst there, taking advantage of Channel Island duty-free rules.  It cost £4 and, using a combination of holiday money and surrendering my only two premium bonds I was able to afford it.  It came with an earpiece so suddenly I could listen to Radio One and the sport without annoying anyone else.

In complete contrast, the following year we headed north for Scotland, choosing to stay the first week near Pitlochry and the second in the Western Highlands based at Balmacara near the Kyle of Loch Alsh where the ferry still left for the short crossing to the Isle of Skye.  The Machins were with us again as we learnt a couple of new lessons about this part of the British Isles.  Firstly, when it’s not raining, which it did for most of the first week, it’s stunningly beautiful, even to a teenager; secondly when it’s not raining, and therefore stunningly beautiful, it’s inhabited by zillions of midges.  Nevertheless, we enjoyed the fortnight, although not enough it seemed to return the following year.  For 1974 we were heading back down the Fosse Way and M5 to Cornwall and reverting to the tried and trusted mix of sandy beaches and surf.

Oblivious to the early warning signs and looming consequences, we children would have no inkling that the caravan in Abersoch in 1975 would be the last time we were all able to enjoy a family holiday.  The choice of the Llyen Peninsula was made on the recommendation of some local friends and as far as I can remember it provided an acceptable level of beaches and cliff walks but the lack of surf was a predictable disappointment.  Even the nearby hills of Snowdonia were tantalisingly out of reach for family activities then limited by mum’s worrying condition.  Whilst everyone tried to enjoy themselves, it wasn’t easy.  She had no energy and could barely manage a decent walk, even leaving much of the catering to Dad or Jackie.  I was distracted; having just finished my O-levels I really wanted to be maximising my time with Helen Lovett and fine-tuning my preparation for National Swimming Championships in a few weeks’ time.  We muddled through and returned to face a traumatic six months.

It felt like both an act of defiance and a memorial tribute when we voted for Cornwall the following summer.  Dad towed a borrowed caravan to a little site down on The Lizard for the first week and then we joined the Machins in a large cliff top house near Lynmouth for the remaining seven days.  Everyone tried hard, we had some fun and even progressed to using wetsuits and a malibu board in the surf.  But it wasn’t the same; we were missing the person who held everything together and, although we all supported each other, it was difficult at times.  It must have been tough for Dad without anyone to share his emotions with and I suspect he was glad to have the company of Colin and Sheila during the second week.

And that was it - almost.  We were all beginning to go away for trips with our groups of friends so the annual family trip was quickly becoming less of an event.  We managed a week in bungalow near Newquay in the summer of ’77 before I headed off to Birmingham.  This topped up my Cornwall fix for the year; I’d already had a week at Skewjack surf village near Sennen and Jackie had been youth-hostelling along the coast after her O-Levels.  We were obsessed with surfing, even making the mistake of taking on some big waves one evening at Watergate right after a large dinner.  Ten minutes after coming out I threw up in the carpark toilets and, as Dad drove us back, Jackie did the same actually inside the car.

The actual memories of this family holiday era spanned barely a dozen years - but they’re locked in, deep inside,  reinforced by familiar, hugely nostalgic photographs and can never be erased.

On Beta Arietis they’d noted a change in behaviour.  The data continued to flow in but there was a shortage of evidence for the annual family migration phenomena; individuals suddenly seeming to prefer to travel with others of a similar age.  Was this just a temporary blip or would the pattern reemerge?  It would be another decade and a half before they spotted a return of activity they recognised.  Closer study, however, seemed to reveal that the behaviour pattern had mutated; it was no longer just an annual occurrence and the distances the family were prepared to travel had increased significantly.

Generation Three.

Let’s fast forward a few years to the early nineties and the ‘next-generation’ young couple with a toddler experimenting with a new location and a new accommodation experience.

Stuart was barely one when he caught the ferry from Plymouth to Santander and spent a fortnight in the Picos de Europa, being fussed over by elderly Basque ladies who owned the little guesthouses we stayed at.  By the time he sailed back across the Bay of Biscay he’d been backpacked up mountains and, on a deserted Spanish beach, taken his first wobbly steps.  Maybe he thought regular holiday travel was normal?  He’d already ticked off Woolacombe, the Lake District and Brittany and spent more nights under canvas than some people do in a lifetime.

It was a similar story when Murray arrived.  We would take several holidays during the summer, usually to the familiar coastline of Cornwall and Devon where the routines of thirty years earlier would be repeated on the same beaches, along the same cliffs, and around the same harbours.   A camper-van replaced the tent in 1996 and every year it could be spotted on the Lizard, at Sennen, on the north coast near Padstow, and frequently on the campsite at Morthoe near our favourite surfing haunt of Woolacombe.

It wasn’t long before the camper-van, loaded to the hilt with canoes and bikes, was heading across the Channel to campsites in Brittany, the Dordogne and Ardeche along with friends possessing similar outlooks and their own young children.  Something of a contrast with the holidays of just one generation earlier; our parents never dreamt of taking canoes or bikes on holiday or packing wetsuits for kids?  (Clearly we were made of harder stuff back then).

Whilst the main annual excursion was still recognisable, its dominance was being eroded.  Throughout the year we invariably managed a week here or a weekend there, either in the camper or a rented cottage.  It might be mid-Wales for New Year, the Lakes or Dartmoor for Easter, Dorset or Devon in May, inevitably Pembrokeshire in August and then somewhere in the hills for October half-term.  Occasionally we’d be part of a group enjoying a week or two in a gite in Normandy, Provence or the Jura and for ten consecutive years we’d head for the Alps for a week’s skiing holiday. It seems rather extravagant and certainly we were fortunate to be able to find the opportunity, money and friends to spend as much time on holiday as we did.  Whilst away we tried to manage the purse-strings; rarely did we eat out and the wine and beer were from the cheaper shelves of the supermarket.  When travelling abroad, we’d catch the lower-priced overnight ferries, park-up in lay-bys to grab some sleep, and avoid the main continental holiday season.  If we were renting cottages in the UK, they tended to be at the more basic end of the spectrum and for years we opted to avoid paying for electric hook-up on campsites.

I’m sure anyone looking at the data, particularly from the end of the nineties onwards, would come to the conclusion that we had unlimited resources and endless destinations in which to spend them.  By then we’d try to incorporate a ‘bigger trip’, perhaps every couple of years, to supplement our normal routine.  Club La Santa in Lanzarote in 1999 with Sue and Ade and Paul and Jane Kentish for a week of sport and relaxation was the first time we’d taken the boys on a plane and the nearest we’ve ever come to a package holiday.  There, when we were not playing tennis, training in the pool, running on the track or playing five-a-side, we loafed by the leisure pool, ordered drinks and club sandwiches from the bar in the afternoon, and ate in the restaurant during the evening, rubbing shoulders with the odd elite athletes who were there to train properly.  Two years later we returned there, again with Sue and Ade and joined by Dave, Bev and their boys and this time ventured out of the complex to visit the volcanoes and deserted northern coastline and swap the road bikes for mountain-bikes.  Unfortunately, the last few days were obliterated by dust storms blowing on strong westerlies from the Sahara and my performance in the triathlon event was handicapped by a finger wrapped in a bandage; I’d sliced it badly the previous day chopping tomatoes.

Over Christmas 2002 we ticked the Disney box; in fairness the boys never pestered us to go but we felt it was just one of those things the family needed 'to experience’.  Sue B, still working in the travel business at the time put together an itinerary that ensured we didn’t spend the whole fortnight in Florida riding on roller coasters or being accosted by Mickey Mouse.  Flying into Miami, we spent a time on the Keys, kayaked in the mangroves, watched the dolphins on a trip to the reef and did the 'Live and Let Die' tourist experience of jet boating and feeding the crocodiles.  Christmas itself was spent in a delightful waterside motel in Marika where manatees would swim into a lagoon, almost within touching distance from our verandah.  The final week was full-on Orlando:  Disney, Universal Studios, Sea World, the water parks and a brilliant day trip out to Cape Kennedy.  As a space programme addict, this was a real highlight for me although, poignantly, we didn’t know that the space shuttle Columbia we saw standing on the pad ready for launch in a few days would disintegrate on re-entry a couple of weeks later.

Four years later and it was time to give the boys a taste of something a bit different with a re-visit to a country we had fond memories of.  We signed up with Exodus for a family ‘adventure’ trip to Egypt and, with three other families, we crammed in the sights over ten days during the October half-term.  It was a perfect blend that combined some nights in decent hotels with staying in the home of a Nile villager, sleeping on the deck of an Arab dhow, a ‘felucca’, as we sailed up the river to Luxor, and taking the overnight train from Cairo to Aswan.  The Exodus ethos was to share the culture, customs, landscapes and history in a low-key way, trying hard to avoid peak tourist times and supporting local enterprises, schools and charities.  This suited us fine; we didn’t mind being out at the pyramids at the crack of dawn, taking a long camel ride out into the desert to a monastery way beyond the tacky chaos where the tourist buses stopped, or eating in little local cafes and restaurants.  We snorkelled on the reef in the Gulf of Aqaba where huge resorts had now sprung up, replacing what had been just a few small hotels and the odd tent only twenty-five years earlier when Dad and Mavis had driven us, Naomi and Sally across the Sinai on our visit in 1979.  It was good to finish the trip back in the heat, noise, dust and chaos of Cairo and to share the history, affluence, poverty and excitement of that vibrant city with the boys.  It’s a shame to reflect that the people we encountered scraping out a living, trying to better themselves by learning languages and  focused on their schooling will recently have taken some hard blows over the last decade.  The Arab Spring has backfired, the tourists have been scared away and now Covid has added to the problem.

We signed up again with the Exodus over Christmas 2010, this time for a visit to Nepal and a trek along the Everest Base Camp route.  It’s a stunning country inhabited by a charming people.  Despite its recent sprawl, Kathmandu still has the enticing charm of its ancient temples, durbar squares and the backstreets of Thamel.  Rickshaws, climbers, cows, trekkers, saffron-clad monks, motorbikes and tourists all rub shoulders on the narrow alleys and amongst the tiny little shops and cafes.  The dirt, noise, and colour, were still not very different to how the hippies arriving via the Magic Bus in the Sixties, or Nigel and I arriving knackered after a long two-day trip from Delhi in 1983, had found it.

Visible, when the mists and smog cleared, are the surrounding mountains.  We took the infamous flight to Lukla on the small twin Otter plane, peering over the pilot’s shoulder, as it flew up through the foothills, barely clearing some of the passes before diving down to land on a tiny airstrip carved out of the mountainside.  Best not to dwell on its reputation as the world’s most dangerous landing zones.  From there, over the next week, we walked up the Dudh Khosi valley (see River Deep.. chapter) staying in lodges that became increasingly more spartan and chilly as we gained altitude.  A memorable Christmas Day in the beautifully stunning small town of Namche Bazaar was capped by our first view of Everest, a noodle Christmas dinner, a singsong with our local guides and porters and the gift of a white, silk scarf each, representing a hope for good fortune in life.  The freezing night at Thangboche, our high point is described in the Sunsets chapter.  By the time we left Nepal ten days later, after the return trek, a bum-clenching take-off from Lukla and a few days over New Year in the Chitwan safari park, it’s fair to say the boys had enjoyed another perfect slice of exposure to a completely different way of life.

The writing was however on the wall.  Stuart was in his fresher year and planning a long kayaking holiday in the Alps, Murray had already been off to Newquay with his mates.  The attraction of a family holiday with Mum and Dad was clearly starting to wane.  Why not go for one last biggie?

We flew into New York City in August 2011, were first up the Empire State at the crack of dawn the next morning and consequently had the viewing platform virtually to ourselves, ate waffles for breakfast and then hopped on the open-top bus tour.  The following day, like true tourists, we strolled through Central Park, caught the ferry past Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, listened to the buskers at The Battery and hung out during the evening in Times Square.  Next morning we were on the plane to San Francisco where again we compressed into 48 hours the ‘top ten things to see when in….’ and added in a Giants’ baseball game for good measure.  We had however been describing the holiday as a ‘road trip’ and so, straight after breakfast in a retro-diner, we took possession of a large SUV, we headed off east, out of the city, towards the mountains, canyons and backcountry.  Over the next ten days we traced a route through Yosemite, Zion and Bryce National Parks, taking time to hike some less popular trails, appreciate the unique rock formations and soak up the stunningly clear star-filled night skies.  We drove down the ‘Extra-terrestrial Highway’ and past Area 51 without spotting any UFOs and stayed in a little quirky wooden motel in the middle of Death Valley.  The sunset across the desert hills was stunning and the tumbleweed blowing across the dusty forecourt made it feel like something from a spaghetti western.  Nothing can beat the scale and beauty of the Grand Canyon, although it was just too hot to contemplate a walk down and back to the river, so we settled for something half-way and enjoyed the most amazing lightning storm during the evening.  Final destination was Las Vegas; the crazy, awful place sprawling out into the Nevada desert.  The hotel was Hollywood themed; I think we had the Blues Brothers room and the boys were in Top Gun.  It wasn’t for us; by the time we’d walked up and down the Strip, being constantly accosted by guys trying to persuade us to visit this club or see these girls, watched the fountains outside Caesar’s Palace, quickly lost our $25 each in the hotel casino and stuffed our faces with yet more pizza and burgers, we’d had enough and were ready to fly home.  It was a fantastic trip, we’d got along fine and done some amazing things; the perfect way to bring to a close the latest era of the family holiday.

And then they were off; leaving home for university, holidaying with their friends, doing their own thing.  We still manage the odd long weekend and invariably get together at the annual St David’s pilgrimage, but the days of the family holiday have now been passed over by another generation.

Did having so many other holidays and breaks throughout the year dilute the memories, reduce the significance and become something we all just took for granted?  I’d like to think that Sue and I have been able to rationalise our memories and experiences and never fail to appreciate our good fortune.  We remember the excitement of the annual holiday we felt as children; the memories there forever.  Sometimes, as parents, our recollections of the numerous trips can blur together and occasionally need the help of a few photos to sort the timelines but there’s absolutely no doubt that the chance to share these experiences within the family and with long-standing friends is priceless.  I do wonder if Stuart and Murray and their generation of friends appreciate how lucky they’ve been.  I think, as they’re now carving their own paths as adults, that they probably do.  Let’s hope so.

The study of evolving trends had produced some startling contrasts across just the three generations.  The change from a week in a guesthouse in a traditional seaside resort to a fortnight’s annual, self-catered holiday in a tent, caravan or cottage was significant enough.  The next step to multiple annual holidays and short breaks across a range of national and global destinations has been sensational.  Cheap flights, cheap ferries, improved transport have all played a part, but the biggest factor is undoubtedly that most of us are better off than our parents and grandparents.  We might not be rolling in it and we’re broadly still in the same social groupings, but for sure we must have more expendable income and, equally as important, the time to use it. And it’s an addictive bug - after returning from an enjoyable holiday it’s not long before discussion and thoughts turn to whatever and wherever might be the next opportunity.

This probably means there’s unlikely to be any shortage of data in the foreseeable future to prevent the study on Beta Arietis from continuing.