The best holidays of my childhood were crap yet weirdly amazing, and I want the younger Dents to enjoy the same
I am holidaying with my mother on the Northumbrian coast. I realise how this sounds. After a certain age, all British mini breaks, no matter how chic one tries to be, are like the opening lines of an Alan Bennett monologue – one in which the orator, who has never had sex, chunters on about the poor standard of pier-end bingo blotters, before revealing between the lines that they have committed at least one murder. For the record, I have not murdered anyone so far in my rich and varied life; although there was a point just before this half-term break when I came close to gently throttling some Dent family members.
Days before we set off to Alnmouth, on the north-east coast of England, a mini-rebellion began. “I don’t want to go,” said my niece. On the cusp of being a teenager, she seemed unenthused by the notion of visiting a former working lighthouse. My niece’s ideal holiday would be spent on a chaise longue next to a wifi router where she could make and send TikToks of herself doing elaborate hand gestures to squeaky songs. “You are going,” I said. “If I’m going, you’re going.”
Continue reading...from Lifestyle | The Guardian https://ift.tt/2C6nRHS