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Back to Blighty

Sometimes it takes a holiday to appreciate home.

It had been 18 months since I’d taken a week off work. Like many people, my holidays often involve dealing with work related e-mails and calls, or worse still, DIY.

So Amy and I decided that it was the right time to book a week away from home. A few weeks prior to making this decision we’d seen a clip on TV about Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt. The resort was a vision of paradise and so we booked into the same hotel we saw on TV.

It all started so well. The hotel made us gasp: seven swimming pools; camel rides on a private beach with coral reef and tropical shoals swimming around your feet.

So what could possibly go wrong? Well, without wishing to sound in any way melodramatic… I did enjoy my holiday once I had regaining my eyesight and come off the drip. I was very ill. Please note, this was without drinking the local water which is the usual killer. At one point I did wonder if I could be the first person in history whose tombstone would read “Killed by an Egyptian salad”.

On returning home we were met with a cool, overcast English evening and reports of drab weather whilst we were away. My goodness, it was wonderful.

The whole holiday set me thinking about my vision of paradise. I picture endless sun, shopping for local goods, lounging on the beach and new culinary experiences. At the risk of sounding like a bit of a misery – I’m just not cut out for it.

After a few days I’ve had enough of the searing heat. It makes even the most leisurely of tasks seem like hard work and the endless application of sun cream is a pain for the pasty among us. Somehow hot summer days in Britain don’t have the same energy sapping effect on me. I think the reason is that the temperature usually drops off in the evening, as anyone who has ever planned a BBQ will confirm.

Bartering always seems charming on holiday but my goodness, I’d be moved to commit murder if we had to do this every time we bought something in the UK.  I never thought I’d appreciate price labels and bar codes. I’m also pleased the manager from Somerfield doesn’t come out shake my hand, call me ‘friend’ repeatedly and try to drag me in his store. Charming on holiday, less so in Oakwood. Mind you Mike at Somerfield is a nice chap and I think I’d be happy enough for him to call me ‘friend’. I also never need persuasion to go into that brilliant little supermarket, if you don’t use it you should try it out.

Why is it also that if you stay in a hotel abroad the caterers feel compelled to emulate British food, and often not well? Let us try some of your local specialities please! Having said that the best roast beef and Yorkshire puddings I can remember having was in the Caribbean, cooked by a Turkish chef. Very odd.

And finally, what about lounging on the beach? Tragic as this is, after 20 minutes of sitting still, you’ll find me yearning to do something… anything… but not DIY.

Don’t get me wrong, I love going on holiday. It’s just that I also love coming home. Britain’s not so bad is it?

Matthew Lobley

Roundhay Ward Conservative Councillor

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