Going Home

The problem with the last day of a self-catering holiday is that nothing much of interest happens and what does happen is the same every time. The order of events may vary from holiday to holiday (and from individual to individual) but it goes something like this:

• set the alarm for 8 am 
• hit snooze repeatedly until you start to panic you may have left it too late
• bang on teenage bedroom doors and threaten the world will end if they don’t get up soon
• finish packing and have breakfast
• shower and get dressed
• strip the beds and throw all the towels in the bath
• pack the car and drive home (2 hours on this occasion)

I challenge you to write something even mildly amusing about that!

Usually, I write these vignettes in the evening, once enough stuff has happened that there is something to write about, and again herein lies a problem with the final day of a holiday as this means that such writing is done at home. And once home there is enough to do to get back to normal, so making a coffee and sitting in front of the laptop for an hour or so may be frowned upon. In the interests of full disclosure, it is Saturday morning (or tomorrow if you buy my date altering again) and I am sitting in front of my laptop with a coffee and reflecting on the week that has passed. Here’s what I made of it:

I am and always have been a family man. There is nothing I love more than spending time with my children and grandchildren (and of course Mrs Y). An afternoon at Murrayfield watching Scotland play rugby may be a close second, depending on the company and the outcome of the match. So, combining both last Sunday and watching Scotland in the company of Lucy and Maia...... just shoot me now!

Our holiday home was a refurbished (previously derelict) farmhouse and was still part of a working livestock farm. In the field in front of the house there were new lambs gambolling about in the spring sunshine (no money changed hands). Behind the house, a herd of inquisitive cows, many with their new calves, frequently came right up to the house so they could look over the fence into our garden. I suspect they wanted fed, rather that to just say hello, are you having a nice time on our farm? And on a couple of mornings, we woke to a new arrival in the adjacent cow byre. According to Google’s AI thingy, “Spring is a season of rebirth, a time when nature awakens after its winter slumber, symbolizing hope, new beginnings, and the promise of warmth and growth”. That does it for me.

As mentioned previously, the exact location of our farmhouse was hard to pin down. I could tell you it was 55°24’34.3”N 4°34’40.8”W and perhaps some of you may know what I am talking about. Some may even be able to use that information to find the house, but as a system it is not particularly intuitive or memorable. In 2013, a couple of clever chaps decided there must be an easier and more user-friendly way to represent GPS coordinates and so what3words was born. A unique combination of 3 words to describe each of 57 trillion 3-meter square chunks of our planet. That’s a lot of words (even Jackie might struggle to compete). Our farmhouse was ///cheaply.couriers.mostly. And so, to finish the story, here is everyone’s what3words to describe their week.

Isla: ///escape.from.reality
Maia: ///it's.been.something
Lucy: /// it's.got.feathers    
Ben: ///needs.better.internet
Laura: ///we’ll.be.back
Kev: ///hey.jay.kee   
Jackie: ///precious.family.times
me: ///please.roll.uphill

Our WhatsApp chat group is called ‘where to next’, so you may hear from me again.Läs mer