A pre-Christmas holiday

I went on holiday last week. Work was getting antsy about high leave balances, and I was fed up with work, so it was a mutually agreeable arrangement.

I found a lovely wee cottage to rent about an hour north of home, and I booked it for 4 days. I decided to start my holiday on Sunday afternoon because it was better than rushing out of work on Friday and dealing with traffic, and it was way better than a normal Sunday afternoon spent contemplating the week of work ahead.

The cottage was lovely, well equipped and clean and private. There was a table and two chairs outside under a verandah, with an outlook over a small field of lavender. It was warm and sunny. I sat outside with a cup of tea and a book and felt the tension letting go.

I replaced the tea with a glass of wine. I sat. I listened to the birds and looked at the lavender and sipped the wine. I felt the warmth seeping into my bones.

I went fly fishing one afternoon in the nearby river. I stood in the water casting and watching the strike indicator bob along until it was time to retrieve it and cast again. Rinse and repeat. I went to the beach and sat on the sand and looked at the shells and the small waves and the clouds and the people way down the other end of the beach. I let the sun warm me. I read. I took a nap in the shade of some silver birches. I watched a hedgehog make his way over the gravel driveway to the cool dark shade of my car and onward to the hedge. I made salads for dinner.

On other words, I went away for a week and did nothing and it was wonderful.

A mid winter trip

I booked in a few days’ leave to travel with a friend visiting from Australia. It’s not the time of year that I’d pick for a trip but she announced she was coming and that was that. 

Naturally, visiting my estate was on the list of places to go. (I’m rather pretentiously referring to it these days as “my estate”, mainly because I can and it makes me laugh to say it). It’s a four hour drive so I thought we could go a bit further over the next few days, visit a few tourist spots and drive home the scenic route. 

All of which seemed like a not unreasonable plan, except that I didn’t actually want to go on holiday at this time of year, I had to do all the driving and all the bookings and planning, and I went down with the flu the week before. She used to live here, so it wasn’t as if it was a once in a lifetime trip either. 

I knew what I was in for on this trip, which meant I could mentally prepare for 5 days of company. I knew I’d be doing the listening: knowing I wasn’t going to be listened to meant I didn’t expect the conversation to go two ways. I mentally noted one day that during a 2.5h stretch of uninterrupted driving, I made one substantive contribution to the conversation, which wasn’t followed up on, and the rest was all her. I wasn’t passive: I was expected to, and did, ask questions, probe complicated situations and react appropriately to scandals and outrages. I didnt tune out. But it was tiring and my resentment did build.  

It wasn’t until I’d dropped her at another friend’s house for the remainder of her stay, that it suddenly dawned on me I’d volunteered for this. I was under absolutely no obligation to take time off just because she came to visit. I’d fallen into the social trap of doing what I thought was the socially expected thing rather than sticking to what I wanted, enjoyed, and was willing to give. I resented it more because I’d felt pushed into it than because of the near-complete lack of reciprocity (although that didn’t help). In short, I felt used. 

But it’s my own fault. There’s nothing malicious in what she did, she’s just self absorbed. I’m the one who first ignored what I needed and wanted. She just walked through a door I’d already opened. 

A damp holiday

I didn’t take any time off over the Christmas-New Year break, thinking I’d go away once schools were back and the weather settled down. It’s been a miserable summer, wet and cool, and beautiful days few and far between. 

Two events coincided that pushed me to take a week off. My PhD supervisor and his wife visited for the first time in 17 years, so I took a couple of days off work to spend with them. 

The week prior, my colleague handed in her resignation, which meant I really needed to take time off before she left all the work to me. 

So I looked for places to stay in an area where it never rains in February and where, for the past few weeks, the weather report has consistently shown sun and warmth. I found what looked like a perfect spot: a “fishing cottage” about 30 mins out of town. I booked. 

When I arrived, I couldn’t believe my good fortune: this place was perfect. It really was (is) my ideal summer getaway. Rustic enough to be character filled but with sufficient mod cons to be comfortable. A view of hills and the river. Birds and no people. Heaven. 

And then it started to rain. It’s mean spirited of me to begrudge the farmers this because the hills were extremely dry and the week before a fire had ripped through destroying much farmland but fortunately no houses or people. But still. 

It’s rained for the past three days. The hills have just a hint of green about them once again. 

This morning I must leave my little idyll. On cue the clouds have lifted and blue sky is again poking through. The holiday weather gods have it in for me and I do not know what I have done to anger them. 

Alone on vacation

I had a lovely 5 days by myself on the Sunshine Coast, north of Brisbane. The weather forecast said it was to rain all week but mercifully it was wrong and it was in fact sunny all week, with temperatures in the mid-high 20s. A lovely change from the 10s it’s been at home.

I had booked into a resort and managed to upgrade my room to one with a kitchenette and a balcony. This worked beautifully: I could eat breakfast on my balcony in the morning sun, and avoid the $20 buffet fat-fest that is a resort breakfast staple. Similarly, dinner was a light supper in the fading light, and lunch was a treat out somewhere depending on where I was exploring.

I was surprised how many people asked who I went away with, and did I meet anyone while I was away. No-one and no, are the answers. I went on my own, stayed on my own, spent every day on my own, ate 3 meals a day on my own, and came home on my own. It was bliss.

During the day, I would go for a walk somewhere. The resort was a stone’s throw from the beaches and there was a wonderful walkway that went for miles north and south so every day involved a walk along that. The shopping wasn’t up to much but I wandered the town centre idly looking anyway, and managed to find a good bookstore which always makes me happy (I bought a couple of books to show my appreciation for its existence).

I had made up my mind to sketch while I was away, and sketch I did: 3 per day. Generally one was of my breakfast, although that got very boring as it was the same every day. I sketched from the cafe or restaurant where I had my morning coffee or lunch, and of course the waterfront itself was ideal.

The rest of the time I spent sitting by the resort’s pool, reading and having an occasional swim. I almost always had the pool to myself, as the resort was very quiet the week I was there (perfect timing/luck on my part). I took a nap in the afternoons, not a long one but enough to revive my flagging energy for the remainder of the day.

And that’s what I did on my vacation. It wasn’t exciting or newsworthy, and it was a clear loser in the  “Who Had the Best Vacation” one-up-manship competition back at work, but it worked for me. I didn’t force myself to engage in any kind of social interaction beyond the usual pleasantries with staff in stores and cafes, and I came back feeling refreshed, relaxed, and more importantly my health was improved by the break. Perhaps it was the naps, or the warmth, or a combination of these and the lack of social stress, but I have more energy than I have had in a long time. For me, that’s the point of a vacation.

I really should do it more often.