Holiday heaven, holiday hell | Families First magazine

One of the joys of having a home in France is not having to plan the summer holiday any more. It was stressful enough to generate divorce proceedings before we ever made it to the break. But when you?ve slaved all year for it, scrimped and scrounged for it, it has to live up to the dream.

And then there?s the packing. Who needs the devil when there?s Ryanair? 15 kilos? My hair drier and straighteners weigh 15 kilos! And is it going to be warm or cold, sunny or rainy? Put in the shorts and the T-shirts, but don?t forget the mac, and the fleeces and the thermal underwear. And the kids? games and the baby?s toys. Because you will be queuing ? at the check-in, on the motorway, down the carriage because someone?s in your seat and there?s nowhere to put your luggage anyway.

And when you get to your destination, there?s never a socket within reach of a mirror. And you haven?t a lead, or an adapter. And the hotel is a three mile hike from the nearest town ? uphill, in the dark, and you forgot a torch and only packed flip flops. And if you?re planning to camp, it?s salutary to remember that God omitted to put sockets on trees.

Holidays are a bit of a mixed blessing ? and we have had some turkeys. In fact the Turkey holiday was the worst. The hotel disco below our bedroom window blared out music until 3am, and the muezzin took over at 5am. When we weren?t half dead from sleep deprivation, we were waiting at a dubious-looking clinic because one teenager needed stitches in her head and the other slipped in the shower and broke his toe.

And then there was the Greek island holiday, fortunately for just the two of us. The breath-taking view promised in the brochure was straight into the hotel reception, with the entire world and his dog passing by our ground floor bedroom window. We de-camped to a little house four miles from the sea, shops and nearest taverna, so hired one moped between us for ?5 for the entire fortnight. We thought there must be a catch. There was. No clutch. 20mph was the maximum speed. We were overtaken going uphill by a very elderly couple in a horse and cart. They thought it was hilarious.

Beach breaks and Christian camps

According to research, two in five of us may be foregoing our annual summer holiday altogether this year because we?re strapped for cash. The problem is that two days out in the UK can be as expensive as a fortnight in Lanzarote. And somehow, it?s never quite the same. Yes, holidays can be a glimpse of heaven or hell. And it has very little to do with where you are or how much you pay.

My childhood holidays were spent in Blackpool ? and I thought I was in heaven. The long summer days on the golden beach, the endless ice cream, and the perpetual availability of relaxed and happy parents was everything a child could wish for. I was lulled into a contented, exhausted sleep every night by the sound of the sea, the wheeling of the gulls, and the click-clacking of the trams as they rattled their way up and down the prom. Blackpool was eventually passed over for Torremolinos and the package tour. Memories of dire food, the squits, jelly fish stings in unmentionable places and flirting waiters that pursued you to distraction.

And then I was converted, in every sense. Enter the wet and wonderful world of the Christian house party. 10 mile walks in the glorious Welsh countryside, boating, daft games, dormitory accommodation, Bible study in the morning, talks in the evening ? a mass of hitherto unknown pleasures, many of which were free. The leaders couldn?t have done more to love and care for us. No one raised a voice or fell out. Now I knew what heaven would be like. I became a junior leader, declined the package tours, and my parents thought I was barmy. But from then on, the Christian family holiday always had a special place in my heart.

My honeymoon, and the early holiday years of my marriage were spent in Ibiza, at my in-laws? wonderful home overlooking San Antonio bay, in the days before the Spanish had seen an English beer belly. Boy, was I blessed. Standing on one of the terraces overlooking the vast expanse of sun-tipped waves sparkling like marcasite, inhaling the pure scent of the pines, feeling the gentle caress of the sea breezes, I wanted to leap over the railings into the depths of the forest, so that, like some disembodied sylph, I could live in this heavenly place forever.

A moment of perfection

My parents-in-law were like children with a surprise present, continually going back to check that it was still there. They never took the view for granted, but oohed and aahed every time they stopped to look at it, as if seeing it for the first time. There were such variations ? of temperature, of light, of sky and sea colour. They read the clock by the position of the boats and the shadows on the water. English tea was always taken, in china cups, on the middle terrace at four thirty. In the evening, as we ate our meal and the fishermen chug-chugged their way home, we raised the blinds to let in the last rays of a crimson sunset.

That was the nearest in this life I ever came to perfection. ?Nothing lasts forever,? my great aunt Rae used to say. In one sense she was right. Those idyllic summers lasted a mere eight years. When my parents-in-law died, we had to let go of their lovely home too. No summer was ever again quite the same for our children. Not even now, when we have our own precious home in France.

But I was once deliriously happy in Blackpool. And then at a boarding school in Wales, converted Heath-Robinson style into a large holiday home for teenagers. And even now I wouldn?t miss the unbeatable Detling Summer Celebration in Kent. Jewish Princesses don?t do camping. But this is ?glamping?, the kind of glamorous camping we all sensibly now want for our ?staycations?. Airbeds, good wine, portable toilets, even mobile phone chargers, hair straighteners and fridges to chill the ros? come too, as there?s electricity on every site.

Around a hundred of us from St Mark?s family, of every age, culture and race, set up camp together, with a communal marquee as our ?pub?. Like the Jewish pilgrims celebrating the great festivals in Jerusalem. We only ever see our children and young people when they?re hungry, but we certainly see how much their Christian faith has deepened when we get them home.

I love my restful, happy times in France, especially when they?re shared with friends and family. But everyone should invest in at least one communal, Christian holiday if they possibly can. Because, in another way, Aunty Rae was wrong. These tiny glimpses of heaven ? whether it be in the Limousin or Blackpool or on the Kent showground ? will one day last forever.

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Source: http://muenterprises.org/familiesfirst/archives/1022

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