FICTION SPECIAL
Sun cream: check. Toothbrush: check. Phone charger: check. Adaptor: check. Passport: check. Yes, we were all packed and ready to go.
‘Come on, we don’t want to miss the flight!’ called Carl.
It was 8am, the airport was less than two hours away and our flight didn’t leave until 5pm. But that was Carl for you.
All that hanging around was just one of the reasons I disliked flying. But every time I suggested a holiday in the UK, my husband turned up his nose. The weather was too rainy, the sea too cold, the beaches too wet.
So every summer he’d book a package deal to an all-inclusive hotel on the Costa del Sol. For two weeks, we’d cover ourselves in factor 50 (well, I would; Carl seemed to regard sunburn as a badge of honour) and soak up the sunshine, along with several thousand other people.
I wasn’t ungrateful. It was nice not to have to cook or work for a couple of weeks. It’s just, well, it wasn’t really my kind of holiday. But that was what marriage was about, wasn’t it? Compromise. However, as the years ticked by and the kids grew up, I yearned for a change.
‘How about we go somewhere a bit closer to home this year?’ I’d suggested, remembering the blissful seaside holidays I’d enjoyed as a child. ‘We could book a self-catering cottage in Devon. Do some walking.’ I’d always fancied exploring the Coast Path.
But Carl wouldn’t entertain the idea. ‘Are you joking?’ he’d scoffed. ‘Cooking your own meals in some poky old cottage. Going for muddy walks when you could be relaxing by the pool in the sun. No thanks!’
And before I knew it, he’d booked the Costa del Sol. As usual,