A relaxing time on holiday? You must be having a laugh

By Nicola Barry

Published:

THEY say getting married and moving house are the two most stressful things you can do. Not far behind, in third place, alongside death and taxes, comes going on holiday – especially at a time like this, when money seems to be tight.

A lot of people will, as I write, be travelling to Majorca, Benidorm or Florida, all the while wondering why on earth they have bothered spending all that money.

One can only guess at the stress which must be playing havoc with Eamon and Antoinette McGuckin, from Maghera, Northern Ireland.

The couple were on holiday in Portugal when they suddenly became the focus of international attention because they were taken to hospital after passing out at their hotel in Vilamoura, on the Algarve.

To complete the couple’s holiday nightmare, their children, Adam, 1, Amy, 2, and six-year-old Aaron, were temporarily taken into care to a home after hotel staff alerted police that the couple seemed incapable of looking after them.

The Portuguese authorities then alleged the couple were too drunk to look after the children, although the McGuckins have since claimed they were, in fact, ill.

Either way, losing their children, however briefly, must have turned their holiday into a living hell.

To add to their misery, the story unfolded just 40 miles away from where Madeleine McCann disappeared a year ago and sensitivities are obviously running high. Portugal is probably the last place on earth to holiday at the moment if you are a parent.

Holidays are supposed to be a time to relax and recharge batteries, particularly for families.

But you have to wonder if relaxation can be achieved when you have to remember to watch your child’s every move, making sure he or she drinks only bottled water, ensuring they are safe at all times and that they’re not frying in the sun.

Even without children, holidays create untold stress. As far as I am concerned, packing is the only stress-free part of going on holiday.

Once you have worried about how you’re going to get to the airport – whether to pay the staggering cost of a taxi or take your car and park it at the airport for an extortionate fee – there is the worst bit: the queuing and all the dumb questions airport staff are trained to ask.

Did you pack this suitcase yourself?

No, I have a little man who comes in and does that for me.

Did anyone tamper with your bag?

If they did, do you think I would be standing here, not doing anything about it?

Most important of all, you have to remember NOT to make any jokes about people who ask stupid questions or terrorists or anything at all. If you do, you can kiss goodbye to your summer holidays and hello to a prison cell.

Also, holidays abroad are the quickest, surest way of falling out with people, whether they be friends or relatives. How many former friends out there once made the mistake of going on holiday together?

The arguments always start over something unbelievably petty such as which church or museum to visit. You want to visit the museum; they want to see the church.

You argue, and this is pretty strange in itself because the pair of you never argue back at home.

It isn’t long before you have stopped talking altogether, and it’s only your second day. There are 12 more where they came from, each more painful than the one before. Twelve days of the silent treatment, of sulking and longing to be back home.

No matter how hard you try to do your sunbathing by the book, you still manage to suffer third-degree burns. In the evenings, you resemble an over-fed lobster in that low-cut evening dress you packed for special occasions.

Sunburn is painful and boring. There is not much to do when you are bed-bound and covered from head to toe in calamine lotion. You can have the odd cooling bath, of course, but even that involves an hour at the very least, while you lower yourself gingerly into the cold water and collapse, followed by another hour peeling dead skin off your legs in 3ft strips. Very attractive.

You can eat and drink, but that is a mixed blessing, because, suddenly, you’re eating five-course meals every night. In fact, you are eating so much that you gag every time you think of the next meal.

After all, who wants to arrive home three stones heavier, a tub of lard descending the steps of the plane, unrecognised by members of your own family who have come to the airport to greet you.

On holiday, money worries are never far away.

You lie there, on your uncomfortable bed, pink, blistered and burned, thinking about how much the hotel is costing, reflecting on what you could have done with the money if only you’d had the sense to stay at home.

Invariably, you work out that the holiday has set you back by exactly the amount it would have cost you to paint the entire house. Not only that, but, if you had done the decorating instead, you would at least have something to show for it after the event.

Occasionally, as you lie sobbing in your hotel suite, your mind fills with images of your empty house back in Scotland, with horrid imaginings of it being burgled by thugs.

Which valuables have you left out on the dressing-table or strewn across the bedroom floor? How much money did you stuff under the mattress last summer?

Then there is the hotel – the one that looked so stunning in the brochure. It said you would have fabulous views of the ocean from your bedroom. It didn’t say you can see the sea only if you place a chair on the bed and climb on top of it.

Even when you arrive home and imagine it’s all over, there are photos to show.

The holiday is never over.

Your family’s eyes all glaze over as you take them through slide number 86, saying: “And this is Gladys on a camel.”