“Yep” I said, airily. I was lying.
“Yes,” (that was true – I went in. Once). “It was heaven”.
When it comes to holidays, so many people seem to have a view on the way I spend my time.
Perhaps you are already feeling slight pity at such a sad admission, almost certainly mingled with some judgment. You may even be part of the holiday police too.
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Before I go on: yes, I know that I must check my privilege in having tested this intolerance of mine so many times over many summers and countless holidays on Greek islands and other parts of the Med.
The nub of the issue is that I have extremely pale skin that burns to a blistered frazzle within minutes of sun exposure and also tends toward unsightly heat rash. Over time this has made me cautious and risk-averse – quite the opposite of care-free island vibes.
There’s yet another buzz-kill affliction: I am prone to motion sickness which makes fun boat trips more of an endurance test.
I am also, I have concluded, at a fundamental disadvantage having grown up literally never going on holiday to anywhere other than frigid British beaches or the Yorkshire moors, apart from Jersey (once) and Brittany (once). So stripping all my clothes off and wandering freely around in a pair of pants, or boldly changing into a bikini on the beach with only a beach towel to protect the modesty (Who cares?! Me! I care!), the whole… exposure aspect of holidaying somewhere hot simply does not come naturally to me.
This contrast often induces the double-down effect of making me feel prim and slightly uptight; a divide that tends to become more pronounced as the week goes on and they sink even more into their “holiday hair, don’t care!’ persona.
Slowly, with the passage of time, I have had no choice but to accept my lot. And – obviously – it could be worse. Still, what tends to happen on holidays is that I have more time than I would like to sit on the sidelines, under an umbrella (if I’m lucky; sometimes it’s just a sun hat and an unwanted-attention-grabbing scarf draped over my whole body) watching others cavort happily as their tans deepen and I slowly realise, no matter how many measures I have put in place to avoid this feeling, that I am “bad at holidays”. There is nothing like sitting alone in the shade watching other people have all the fun to make you really, fervently, wish that you were just a bit more relaxed. And less pale.
You are probably wondering why I continue to go on hot holidays abroad when it’s all so… hard (I know I know: poor me).
Also if I want to go away with my friends, which I do, my desire to see them always eclipses my awareness of this inevitable predicament on arrival. Plus, their fanatical insistence on sun, sea and sand has overridden my more sensible suggestions over the years of Iceland, Switzerland or Prague. After all, who on earth in their right mind would choose to go there in the summer when you can roam around barefoot in a kaftan instead?
And actually that is the real burden: the blow of realising that I’m missing out on things that more or less the entire world considers to be heaven on earth is bad, yes. But being roundly condemned and even pitied for what lots of people clearly view as a character flaw is so much worse!
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