Frightened of my own cyber shadow, I
go to great pains not to reveal publicly when I’m away, just in case the ‘dark
side’ visits my home when we’re not there. I know, I know, chance would be a
fine thing that my missives had gone viral but, well, with the need to tell
stories comes a slightly warped imagination and you wouldn’t believe the
control room of villains I see plotting to pounce.
 |
| my new writing buddies from Swanwick |
But, now I’m back so it’s safe to safe
to admit that the silence is due to an inspirational week at the Swanwick
Writers’ Conference where stimulus, loveliness and laughter were rife, where I
wrote 10,000 words and where I found myself an agent who’d like to see the rest
of Glass Houses. So yes, thank you Swanwick, it was wonderful. Click here for more information Swanwick Writers' School. This was followed
by a fabulous family holiday in Croatia where we all fell in love with the country
and its people. If I ever truly go missing, please look for me there first.
The great news is that none of my
party broke anything other than a glass, although, in reality, it was actually three.
We’ve had some momentous holidays where we’ve become acquainted with the workings
of a few European hospitals. When other people equip themselves with their
foreign abode’s word for ‘thank you’, first on my list is ‘hospital’. It’s ‘bolnica’,
in Croatian, if you’re wondering. There was the dislocated-elbow-screaming on
the French camp site, not to mention the infamous arm smashing incident, already
well-documented in this blog. But I say, if you’re going to break too many
bones to count, do it on the final night of an amazing action packed two week
holiday in the Swiss Alps and bag yourself the best room in the hospital at the
foot of the Eiger, dosed up with morphine, contemplating the blue sky and snowy
peaks through the almost picture window of your own ward.
I only remember one holiday being so
bad that we almost came home early. It was 2006 and, somewhat unbelievably, a
heat-wave of a summer. We’d taken ourselves off to North Wales in a borrowed
six man tent, a luxurious upgrade to our usual 3-berth.
The weather broke. When I say
‘broke’, imagine trying to keep a hot air balloon anchored in a typhoon and you
get an idea of how much the wind had picked up; tip a bucket of cold water over
your head every time you exit the house and you are some way to understanding
the inundation we were confronted with if we ever dared to leave the canvas.
One by one, all the tents disappeared from the site. It was us and the
caravans. At least the tents left of their own accord, I was so convinced ours
would up and leave us in the night, despite guy ropes tied to the car, and I
would be found next morning snoring in my sleeping bag, the rest of my
possessions and family strewn across the field, that I slept in my clothes to
protect my modesty. Worse! As it was my friend’s tent, I was petrified about
returning empty-handed so any sleep was fitful at best. My friend laughed when
I told her. ‘You’re joking,’ she said, ‘I’d have been so happy to be shot of
the thing.’
That particular camping trip is probably
the closest I’ve come to not enjoying a holiday. Cold feet, a punctured
mattress held together with the contents of the first-aid kit, wet clothes
slapping you in the face as you walk through the doorway, mud in the showers
and soggy boxes of cereal aren’t top of my list of prerequisites for a great getaway.
But I do have pleasant memories of being forced to do different things - such
as going to the pictures three times in one week, learning card tricks from our
equally marooned neighbours and eating two cream teas in one day. Suffice it to
say, our youngest has lusted after camping ever since so it can’t have been
that bad.
How was your summer? Dare I ask, did
you stay dry?
Ps If you like watersports and fancy Croatia, I can't recommend these people highly enough (and no, I'm not on commission ;)) Raftrek Travel, Croatia
