Travel, journey, trip, vacation, holiday, exploration; any of these conjure up far-off exotica accessible only by Club Class, private sea plane, yacht or some chauffer driven conveyance………Clearly this HM has been too long sitting with the Earl (Grey), dipping into ‘Travel‘ magazine (God bless Conde Nast for rainy day wish fulfilment!)

The awesome locations displayed within its glossy pages are accompanied by ‘essential‘ advice on how to get six months’ supply of bikinis into the smallest Louis Vuitton; and which of the hugely expensive beauty products will ensure your skin stays like that of a three-year-old in 120 degrees, and prevents you emerging from Club Class looking like a puffer fish.

Back on planet Hampshire things are a bit more ‘real’.  Don’t misunderstand me, we’ve been around and about - Europe, States, Caribbean and of course, the dreaded skiing. Here’s some advice, always go alone, there’s nothing more stressful on your virgin trip than being the only member of your party who hasn’t competed in the Winter Olympics at some point. 

Always wear black, that way you will look marginally more elegant in the ‘snow plough’ position - which needs to be held for the duration of your stay - than you will in the ubiquitous pink . No one wants to look like a blancmange dying for the loo - trust me , I know……..bugger.  Plus black is a handy colour, having inadvertently strayed from Blue run to Black mogul field, it takes you neatly from slope to funeral.

Skiing is fantastic, particularly when dropped from a helicopter onto virgin snow from where you descend to your lodge to partake of spa, haute cuisine and log fires………….there’s that travel magazine again!  Reality dawns with memories of the scent of ‘Deep Heat’, other people’s socks and the (mentally scarring) image of my brother-in-law’s pale blue Y-fronts drying on the heater …….. another story there I think.

All Macaroni HM holidays are dependent on the horrific constraints of money, school holidays and your ability to tolerate the delights of the human trafficking experience that is Heathrow or Gatwick, until …………this HM went native! Not new-age traveller, no no, camping is de rigeur my dears!

“It’s the only thing!”, cried Toad.

We’ve been doing it for two years now - sounds like a confessional - “Hello my name’s Sandra Pagan and I’m a ….camper.”  Like many things in life, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.

For a HM addicted to the consumption of consumer goods, camping is heaven sent. Completely ignore those who advise a two-man tent and a Swiss Army knife are all you’ll need . Survival in the ‘wild’ is dependent on so many essential gadgets, not least copious amounts of Cath Kidson and red dragonfly fairy lights, (only for the totally gullible ……bugger), the unfortunate side-effect of which is that the tent takes on the appearance of a brothel come nightfall.

The greatest gift camping bestows is a feeling of complete freedom - your children are transformed from competitive target-attaining, electronic game nerds to spirits somewhere between ‘Swallows and Amazons‘ and ‘Lord of the Flies‘,  ummmm oh dear . However the true camper needs to be hardened to the subtlest temptation - the perfumed bedroom with luxurious en suite I visited recently led me to doubt my camping ways, much like a vegetarian who craves a bacon buttie from time to time. The weather in Blighty can be a downside: trying to get one tonne of soggy tent which has assumed all the characteristics of an elephant’s placenta into the boot of the car, is no mean feat . Then your dream-like state of Poussin-esque Arcadian heaven is shattered by the omnipresent nightmare that is communal ablutions.

Fear not, I have discovered the way to avoid the ‘chav line’ queue for the shower, where you will be enlightened as to the all-too-numerous ways one can have sex under canvas; and so too you will miss the woman who simply strips off in public even though she would be more at home in an episode of ‘Little Britain’. The trick is to go early.  6 - 7.30 a.m. is the optimum window, when you are only likely to encounter one or two others who smile knowingly at you, much like Gandalf does to a Hobbit. Pride does, inevitably, come before a fall hence you run the risk that the showers may not yet have been ……cleaned .  Ah do not despair, make sure you are equipped with the camper’s ultimate weapon ……… the ‘Croc’ shoe!

Yes, yes I know this HM has pandered, not for the first time, to the brainwashing tactics of the consumerist gods . Yes , I know it’s a rubber shoe costing £30, available in a myriad of colours, AND before you ask yes I do have ‘Croc Butter’ and three accessories O.K!!!!!! Bugger.

But trust me if you’re ever in a communal shower at 6.30 in the morning feeling smug, and happen to look down, you’ll be so very relieved you’re wearing Crocs. For there, lurking in the darkest corner of the shower …..is the unmentionable…..IT. The unexplainable, unimaginable, insalubrious soggy tissue, hair ball, ‘other’…… As the water runs through your trusty Crocs you are safe in the knowledge that you’ll never actually have to put your feet on the floor. You dry yourself contorting your body into positions only Sting could fully appreciate in order to get back into your clothes.

Survival in the wild ? Ray Mears eat your heart out.

The Halcyon Days of Summer

For the working HM the strategic planning of the summer holidays matches any military campaign. Friends conference 0900, weeks in advance, to fix diary dates for days out and kid swaps between working HMs, which are all neatly dovetailed in between sports courses various, all booked at great expense. Now you know why you work . Not a day goes by wherein the ‘smalls’ are not going somewhere or seeing someone or doing something . Minimal T.V and not a kids’ camp in sight, could this be a roaring success ?  No ….bugger.

Week One. Birds and a Frenchman

The best laid schemes of mice and men etc…raining as in monsoon . Undaunted fellow HM and I and four smalls are off to the local, and wonderful, Hawk Conservancy.

11.00 a.m. the owl flying display …..cut short by the fact that owls are not waterproof and therefore were not keen on either precipitation or participation . Us older birds, feeling likewise, took shelter and declared an early lunch . With not a dead chick in sight the kids feasted on a range of healthy options (please note this was the first day of the holidays - expect a general deterioration).

2.00 p.m. hawks and vulture flying display. Gorgeous visiting French hawk handler is sent off to a small hillock to retrieve two vultures who, not liking the rain either, had taken to the trees, as does the eagle owl, never to be seen again. As the rain fell we were treated to the spectacular flying skills of kites and hawks who gave not a toss about the weather just as long as they continued to be fed, much like the kids.  Meanwhile our French friend was occasionally glanced upon said hillock swinging his bits around on a rope trying to entice the birds. Bet he never had to work so hard. Vive la France !!!!

Despite efforts to educate the smalls on the ways of birds, the highlight for them was, as ever, the shop: takes them thirty minutes to finally choose a plastic hawk and a bouncy egg. Success!?

Week 2. A Day at the Arboretum

Screech to a halt in the overflow car park amid cries of “Oh no not here AGAIN“, on the first really hot day of the hols. Still on the healthy eating plan we, the same HM friend as last outing - she’s a real trooper - attempt a picnic amongst ‘rare specimen’ trees, which all the smalls are now intent on climbing.

Once past the rather austere lady at reception, armed with the ‘children’s activity’ sheet and the price list for the ‘Art in the Garden‘ exhibition: (“No don’t climb on that - it costs £16,000!"), we are free to explore.

Having thrown the last of their sandwiches and just a few ‘tiny‘ stones into the Koi carp lake, in which there floats a large iceberg (ah the wonders of post graduate art), we move swiftly to the beautiful labyrinth of generous borders that comprises the ‘Magnolia Walk’ - which is peppered with the most exquisite glass sculptures precariously perched on low pedestals ………you know how that vein in your neck sometimes throbs…..?

The sun now beats down and numerous shuffling octogenarians take to the shady benches; not only do they know the Latin for the new hybrid Hebe but also for ‘shut those bloody kids up ‘………very impressive.  Then home via the usual ice cream and shop debacle, however there are no breakages (bones or art), half the activity sheet is filled in and we leave with a multitude of sticks, leaves and stones…….ah sweet success. But will they renew my membership ?

Week 3. Studland

Saturday dawns, first really hot weekend of the hols, on go rose-coloured specs: ‘Let’s go to Studland tomorrow ‘.

Awash with thoughts of soft gold sand, clear sea and a stroll along an uncrowded beach I dispatch husband to M& S for his favourite picnic foods, ignoring him muttering something about ‘easier to go to West Wittering’…. No no, this HM is now on an, albeit thoroughly blinkered, major offensive to create the perfect family day out……..bugger.

Sunday, up later than hoped and further delayed by copious pancake cooking, then off and away fully equipped for a perfect day by the sea.  There’s a ‘misunderstanding‘ on the motorway: “Why Ferndown?”

“Well obviously you’re not taking the ferry…….?”

“Yes,” and then those immortal words….”it’s quicker….”

After two hours arrive at Sandbanks, where the word ‘FULL’ seems to feature quite large.

“It will be different at Studland," this HM confidently assures just as we pass the ‘1hour waiting from this point‘ sign for the ferry…….bugger.

The rose-coloured specs now appear to have been surgically applied to my retina enabling me to wax lyrical about the wonders of Sandbanks architecture and to play the ‘which house would you like to live in‘ game…….for 1 hour 15 minutes. At one point the husband launches himself from the car, much like a greyhound from a trap, and I just catch the phrase ‘F**k this’, as he manfully strides out for the sea, which is 67 cars away from us, so he said……..

I am now in Mary Poppins mode, the voice is clear but several octaves higher than normal and I can’t stop saying ‘Nearly there darling’. Panic rising, rose specs in meltdown.  Finally cross over on ferry, through toll, survive the antics of cyclists and furious drivers, (they were having trouble parking for some reason..), and arrive at Middle Beach………..

CAR PARK FULL. Bugger, bugger.  Above the general melee of Stars I & II shouting ‘Can we just go home’, and husband loudly declaring that “this is the worst (expletive, expletive) day out I’ve ever had,”  this HM loses it…..” I can’t believe you lot are so bloody ungrateful.”

If I had a ‘How to be a Good Parent‘ manual, then would have been a good time to rip it in half. The only thing in my defence was that this scenario was being played out in all the surrounding vehicles.

The lovely men of the National Trust, predicting a riot, opened the car park. With a rush of hot rubber on gravel this HM bravely fought of competitors by driving round the car park the wrong way,  past caring now, to secure the final space.

Mary Poppins returns: “There we are darlings, lovely.”  Have lost rosy specs .  It’s 120 in the shade, talking of which I forgot to pack the beach umbrella so I circumnavigate the ice cream queue en route to the shop where I purchase one.  Ah but the beautiful beach is, of course ………….. packed, heaving, the world and his wife and all their offspring are there.

In true Macaroni fashion we find the last square foot of this ‘paradise’ available, right next to the wasp-infested bins - a little trip to First Aid any minute I think.  Stars I & II take off to the seaweed-choked  shoreline, followed by husband who stands gazing, motionless, out to sea. Anthony Gormley’s got nothing on this.

All is not lost, Studland is blessed with a little boat that weaves its way in and out up the beach selling ice creams. Sensing imminent keel-hauling, give Star I £8 and watch him wade into the surf, didn’t know it was quite that deep……bugger. Still it’s astonishing the dangers a 9-year-old will face to get his hands on four over-priced ‘Magnums’, not least a clip round the ear with a temporarily redundant outboard motor…….no harm done.

Despite the wasps, swarming in biblical proportions, we embark on our much awaited picnic. “Where’s the scotch eggs and sausage rolls I bought?”  Where? I appear to have left the husband’s favourite delicacies in the fridge….bugger……nicely chilled, middle shelf……..Redemption was close at hand in the form of two mildly warm  beers.  It’s safe to say that that represents the best of the day.

Our departure, made a tad tricky by the accompanying sand and shell collection, was further hampered by UN-style negotiations on why we needed to get home as opposed to going to a ‘Little Chef’, or 'Little Thief' as my husband calls them. The usual rule applies - mass screaming on how unfair life is all the way to the ferry, for which there is a one hour wait ……..

The sight of the Sandbank palaces brings not only a sense of déjà vu but reinstates the humble Macaroni status, wish I’d worked harder at school.  Still, who cares that they’ve got aquamarine windows when you’ve got a tonne of sand in your knickers and it’s taken two hours to get out of Bournemouth!!!!!!!

Finally the delights of the M27, loads of traffic, none of it moving.  Husband loses the plot, the general thrust of his (rather convincing)  argument was, “should have gone to Wittering - can’t BELIEVE you took the ferry”, and the final body blow, “This is the worst day out I’ve EVER had, I am NEVER doing this again!!!!!”  Crestfallen this HM’s gaze tearfully drops downward and comes to rest on a tiny image of a petrol pump flashing red…………..BUGGER!!!!!

All reason has now left, am utterly convinced God is, yet again, punishing me for a previous clanger,  panic has set in. Husband has declared me hysterical and is shouting, “Just calm down for Christ’s sake!” 

I’m now hunched over the wheel breathing into a paper bag as the faithful Renault gasps its last……..

creep around the roundabout onto the M3 to find it doing its best impression of the ‘Road to Hell’, elect to come off and in so doing take a wrong turn and end up on the deserted carriageway going BACK to Bournemouth !!!!!!  But then an oasis in this tarmac desert……a garage…….but on the other side of the road . With the Renault now pleading ‘Petrol…..petrol’ I execute an excellent handbrake turn around the next mini roundabout then half a mile at 80mph (approx), and screech to a breathless halt on the forecourt.

Husband, now silent with rage, fills the car, I get Stars I & II to the loo and then draw a small but interested crowd as I proceed to empty the boot of the car, including Sahara-esque amounts of sand, to locate the last of the picnic, and the map.  I innocently suggest going via Ringwood? Salisbury?

“I’ll drive….M3.…. Lets just get home,” came the stony reply. Far from sounding like the last reassuring line in a Bruce Willis disaster movie, as the kids shared the last sandwich, I knew we were in the hands of a homicidal maniac . With G-force at maximum we arrived at the local Co-Op, white Bordeaux now essential, particularly after SEVEN hours in the car………..a fine time was had by all ……….bugger.

Cognac and the Connection Cable

After a week of camping on the Vendee the intrepid Pagans venture south to visit friends near Cognac, in the village of Juillac - Le Coq  (be careful how you say it).

A minor misunderstanding as to our precise location - “Oh you’re only one hour away ..” - in reality turned out to be nearly 3 hours….and a bit…….and then just a tiny bit more…….  Clutching a map and a little photo with their telephone number, (our chums never answer their phone), we call in at the friendly Renault garage, where the lovely Monsieur,” Ah oui, Bill!”, explains to this thick Brit HM exactly how to find ‘Chez Menuet ‘.

Premier gauche, something something, up the hill, crossroads then premier droite, ah oui, bon, merci.

After a further 20 minutes of ‘rant ‘ driving, a bit like Top Gear but with verbal violence, I look across the valley to see our friends’ abode; luckily I remember what colour her shutters are - all we had to do was aim for it.

Moments later we find ourselves in a vine-surrounded orchard sipping the second glass of white Bordeaux (the first one went down rather quickly….).  Soon we are rediscovering Arcadian pleasures. Stars I & II played boules, picked the fruit and made the acquaintance of a kitten. We drank, ate lasagne and talked and talked until the sun went down. Peace, perfect peace.

Do you know the sound of needle scratching across vinyl ?

Morning dawns fresh and crisp across the misty vines with the air as clear and fragrant as the grape itself. Anyway that’s how it appeared to me as I threw open the shutters of the beautiful guest room having just enjoyed a scented shower - no ‘Crocs‘ required here I can tell you. Possibly this differed from the husband’s experience of sleeping with two overly excited children in the other guest room, a caravan, or ‘sweat box’ as he so eloquently described it………

Anyway, prior to breakfast we just needed to pack the car and set up the DVD player for the long journey to Rouen.

“Where’s the connection cable for the DVD, Sandra?”

“In the pocket in front of the seat”

“No it’s not”

“”Yeah, in the pocket”

“It’s been in here for two weeks, but it’s not in here now!”

Bugger

Reality, always stark, abruptly dawns: I took the cable out to plug in the cool box…so…..where did I put ….the cable. Have you ever had a Spielberg sky moment, you know when the camera zooms in on your horrified face and the sky behind you flies away at lightning speed….imagine if you will.

What followed can best be described catastrophic.  The husband seemed to be convulsed in some kind of fit, probably not helped by the overnight heat in the sweat box - sorry caravan. He proceeds to hurl abuse and the contents of the Renault in all directions. Our hosts’ polite enquiry as to was there anything wrong and could they assist in any way only served to propel husband further into the ‘zone’, off the Richter scale of apoplectic rage.  With a whirling of arms and legs, interrupted only by the mantra “My f****ing life’s c***p,“ he virtually strips the car down to its chassis, then with bulging eyes and foaming mouth tips all the contents of every bag out onto the manicured lawn. I feared for both his health and sanity, however this proved to be quite cathartic for the dear chap who suddenly stopped and pronounced, “Well .. it’s not in here."

As our friends announced that breakfast was ready it occurred to me that you only find out who your true chums are when your dirty undies are festooned on their vine, fine vintage that. Bugger.

We quietly re-packed the trusty Renault, I quietly went upstairs only to find……..another bag………if there is a God…………either way I’m dead………….there it was……the connection cable….the root of all evil. Bugger?  Skip downstairs humming an annoying little tune, tried hard not to ….honest…… presented husband with cable and suggested an anger management course might be a good plan on our return to Blighty.

So where did your husband serve the divorce papers then?  Oh it was lovely really, over coffee and croissants near Cognac.