An interesting concept Luck.
I’ve always considered myself very lucky. I still do. But I feel my luck has changed over the past few years. Not the proper lucky stuff – Happy, Healthy, Loved etc etc.. More the day to day luck that seemed to follow us wherever we went, casting some golden glow over us as we landed on our feet again and again.
The glow seems to have passed on to some other lucky souls. We find ourselves in a permanent state of near calamity at all times. Our garden hacked in half by some Dickensian misanthrope, our children permanently riddled with viruses which spread between them like wildfire.
Nowhere else has our luck been more altered than on our holidays.
We are now professional shit holidaymakers. So much so that (save our own parents), we can not find anyone with even the faintest desire to join us on our calamitous travels. And He works for a travel company. He gets REALLY cheap holidays…
It’s all the Fusspot’s fault really. We had some marvellous holidays with the Big One before his little bro came along
and ruined it for us all 😉
We decided to go to Brittany when the Fusspot was about 5 months old. He thought it’d be a brilliant idea to develop bronchiolitis and spend the week in an oxygen bubble in Quimper hospital. Nice one. I thought I’d much prefer to spend my holiday on a z-bed sick with anxiety, than at the pool with the rest of the family.
Surely a blip in our unblemished record of successful jaunts?? We booked a cottage in Wales later that year. He only went and did the same bloody thing!! This time, my week was spent in Chester hospital. Still on a z-bed. Still sick with anxiety.
We waited 6 months before attempting another holiday. What we needed was some guaranteed sunshine. Let’s fly to the Riviera! Three days in, we were having a marvellous time. Totally getting our holiday mojo back on. A bit of heavy rain that evening wasn’t going to dampen our spirits.
Fusspot awakes at 3am. I stumble across the caravan and retrieve his dummy. Something’s amiss… Where’s our car gone? Why are there men with torches shouting in French?
Flash floods. The worst to hit the area for decades. Super.
We grab a few possessions in a couple of rucksacks, strap a boy each to our backs, and wade waist-deep for ten minutes until we reach the campsite bar. We settle ourselves and try and act like it’s just the most fun we’ve ever had to stop the boys from freaking out.
“The river’s burst its banks” comes the cry. “Onto the roof”. The following 8 or so hours were bleak. A low point was watching an old man do a poo in the makeshift latrine.
We were finally helicoptered off the roof and taken to a refugee centre where we were fed and clothed by some kindly locals. We got a cab to a different campsite and stuck out the rest of the holiday there. Determined, if not a little stupid.
We were due to set off on holiday today. A mammoth tour through France, with a boat home from Spain in a couple of weeks. The weather forecast was dire. We decided to hold off for a few days until it improves. We are either getting wise, or boring. Possibly both. But, can you blame us?
The cooking seems a bit of a non-sequitur. For tea tonight I made rather bog-standard Roast Pork. The rain was drumming down and I felt like making something wholesome and hearty. Not much of interest I’m afraid. A rolled half-shoulder, roasted with sea salt, lemon, olive oil and Caraway seeds – and gravy made using Marsala wine. Lots of crackling and clean plates = happy me at least.
Now to tackle the packing. Wish us luck. And if you don’t hear from me again, then the shit holiday luck may have finally got the better of us for good…If anyone fancies joining us, just get in touch 😉