I'M DESPERATE for a holiday, but don't know where to go. The spectre of Abroadshire presents itself, but I can't think of anywhere I fancy, except maybe Norway. But I've been there.
I'd like to go to Canada or the United States, but not until we can be beamed thither by molecular transfer.
But I must go somewhere. The key to getting by in newspapers is to get away every three months. If you don't, you go under. Well, it's nea
rly five months since I had a day off and, so far, this year's madness has eclipsed even that of the many preceding it. As I write, you may reliably envisage me with a pencil up each nostril as, rhythmically, I recite the word "wibble" every 15 seconds.
My requirements for a holiday are quietness, greenery and familiarity. I like to know reliable chain stores from home are nearby, and don't hold with characterful bistros and similar nonsense. Characterful usually just means small and, often as not, unhygienic. I like my food standardised and predictable. Aeroplane meals I find particularly delicious, except where they involve cheese.
The green and the quiet go together, and I'd be happy if the world were one great allotment site. But I realise you can't have all of these things at once. My first idea had been to holiday in Liverpool and then take in maybe Bolton. Though I love greenery, I also enjoy rain and grimness, and I like down-to-earth, reliable people, such as you find in Lancashire. In Liverpool, I wanted to revisit Paul McCartney's childhood home, and to see John Lennon's for the first time.
Liverpool is an odd place. I've been three times. The first was in my teens, to see Liverpool Football Club. Happily playing up to the stereotypes, somebody nicked my wallet.
The second and third times were for newspaper stories about the Beatles (long after they'd split up, I hasten to add). On the last occasion, the photographer and I went out for a drink in a pretty rough area. For some reason, I really fancied a gin and tonic. The barman looked at me as if I had the words "weird and dangerous" tattooed on my foreheid. Then he poured a smidgen of gin into a pint glass.
I know little of Bolton, having been only once, on newspaper business. So, that would be a mighty fine adventure for me. I suppose it will have changed to a degree, like everywhere else, and that not everyone will still be wearing overalls, a form of attire I admire and respect. I don't suppose, if they're anything like Edinburgh, that either Liverpool or Bolton will be safe on Saturday nights, and I expect it will be advisable to take a Samurai sword or a scythe.
Birmingham and environs also appeal to me. I appear to be the only citizen of Britainshire who likes the Brummie accent. Someone said recently that it was impossible to sound angry in a Brummie voice, and I believe it. English Midlands folk are awfy nice, in my experience. Besides, Tolkien grew up round there somewhere, and I'm sure there'd be some kind of organised Middle Earth tour one could take. I do not like travelling "independently", preferring to be shepherded from attraction to attraction by people who know what they're doing.
I notice there's a tramway museum in Derbyshire, which sounds super. My watchword on holiday is: the duller the attraction, the better. Excitement, in the view of many experts, clogs the arteries and leads to breathing difficulties.
There is also a canning museum in Stavanger, which got me thinking about Norway again. Ideally, I'd like to go on a cruise, where you don't have actually to set foot in any foreign country, but can just view it from the safety of the ship. There's a cruise from Newcastle that arrives in Bergen at 11pm and heads back to Newcastle the next morning. The total travel time is three to four days, but they expect you to take a short midnight stroll in the Bergen harbour area, which strikes me as unnecessary. For a fuller holiday, there is a longer trip available but, with this one, they leave you on your own in the strange country for a couple of days.
The problem with holidays is the planning ahead. I'm constitutionally averse to this. I don't know what it is: an expectation that we'll all be deid by next Tuesday, I suppose. But I must envisage myself somewhere soon. I'm now thinking of the Lake District or Cork, which seem exotic without being too frightening. But everything is so hideously expensive. I've set aside three hundred quid, which I suppose some people could spend in a night in North Berwick. North Berwick? Now, there's an idea.
The full article contains 817 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
