We're All Going On A Summer Holiday

It’s that time again: the holiday. Or a holiday, I should say. I hesitate to make it sound more momentous than it is. Holidays for me have never been great set-piece events, carefully rationed out in annual quotas, as they are for most respectable people. I’ve always taken the view that if an opportunity for a few days away presents itself, it should be grabbed — like a reduced pork pie on a supermarket counter. That said, my partner Brayden has a proper job. You know, emails, policies, and somebody called Deborah in HR who approves his holiday requests. So we can’t just swan off as and when. We have to pick our moment, like a vicar choosing his text. This year, aside from a quick week in New York which barely counts — more an exercise in walking and ordering coffee wrong — we’ve not been away. So we’re off next Saturday. Madeira. Now, Madeira — if I’m being honest — has always existed for me primarily as a punchline in Up Pompeii — that wonderful seventies sitcom where Frankie Howerd would leer at the camera and mutter, “Madeira? She was just a piece of cake.” It was that sort of place — somewhere exotic-sounding but faintly absurd, mostly associated with elderly relatives and cruise ships. Saga specials, gently warming their ankles and asking if it’s too early for a sherry. But apparently not anymore. Apparently, it’s all very lively and inclusive, and friends who’ve been have come back speaking in the kind of hushed, reverent tones usually reserved for new restaurants or skin serums. This time last year, of course, we were exploring another volcanic island in the Atlantic — Iceland. Bracing, dramatic, and not without its moments of, shall we say, unexpected meteorological enthusiasm. So why not now try its southern cousin? Madeira has volcanoes too, albeit of the mostly dormant variety. (Though as one of our planned activities involves bathing in a volcanic pool, I may yet be in a position to challenge the accuracy of that statement.) The plan — and it’s always best to approach these things with a plan — is simple: days by the pool with a good book, a bit of gentle exploring, a few indulgent meals, and the happy business of celebrating our anniversary while we’re there. It’s that lovely kind of holiday where, most mornings, the biggest decision is which pair of shorts to pull on. Bliss. Of course, London at the moment feels curiously like being on holiday already. The boat basks in sunshine, the canal gleams, and people wear sunglasses with that optimistic Londoner look that suggests they’ve completely forgotten February. Naturally, there is that small, unworthy hope that while we’re away, London won’t enjoy itself too much. One wants to read Facebook updates saying: “Will this rain never end?” or “Nearly put the heating on last night!” But the forecast suggests both Madeira and London may be enjoying sunshine simultaneously. We shall allow it. Still, as much as I love our little floating life here, there’s something deeply appealing about being elsewhere. Just the two of us — Brayden and me — with no demands, no expectations, and nothing much to do beyond deciding where to have lunch. Admittedly, there has been talk (his) of sunrise hikes and (again, his) of “just a bit of walking” which, as we all know, can mean anything from a pleasant meander to something that requires a Sherpa and a head torch. Negotiations continue. But whatever shape it takes, the simple truth remains: we enjoy each other’s company enormously. And as Henry James, who knew a thing or two about such matters, once wrote: “Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.” And so, next Saturday, our summer afternoon begins.