Before I had children I did a lot of travelling. Working in the film business was great in that way because we would often do "away" shoots, sometimes to really cool places like Moremi in Botswana or the Seychelles. And inbetween filming seasons I would head off to whichever destination tickled my fancy. I had cash and no responsibilities.
But since the girls were born I've had to satiate my wanderlust with the Travel Channel - which actually just depresses me to no end. I console myself with the fact that this is a temporary state of affairs and before we know it the girls will have upped and left for the world, leaving us with no choice but to don our backpacks and head off into the foreign yonder. Or more accurately I will don my backpack, alone, and head off, leaving Charles to his utopia of perfect waves. "We don't need to go anywhere," he says regularly, "We live in paradise. There is no other place in the world with waves like Look Out point." And this from a man who has searched the globe for the perfect wave - perhaps he knows what he is talking about. He can have Look Out point until he is old and completely bald, but I'm not done - there is way too much for me still to see, and it doesn't have to be on the coast!
Last winter I got a serious bout of ants in my pants and decided that the time had come for us to hand over the children to the grannies and take ourselves off for a "well deserved, big trip." Madagascar was our port of call. I spent hours planning and pricing. I even had two travel agents working around the clock to work out the best deal for us. This was it, we were going! Afterall we had barely had any time for fun and travel between reviving our relationship and producing our offspring and hadn't even had a proper honeymoon. The time was perfect, I believed.
But alas, after all my dreaming, planning and organising, boring old Mr Reality stepped in and pointed out that we simply could not afford to blow our entire savings on a two week surf trip to the jungle. Even if we do "deserve" it. Instead, as a consolation prize, we could go for three nights up the freezing cold West Coast, and sleep in the back of our van - no such luxury as a proper bed. After day one we were hit by the biggest storm on the Cape coast in ten years. We returned home early - me, pitifully hungover after drowning my disapointment with a bottle of red wine the night before and Charles, elated at having surfed an epic 20ft swell with his best friend. I guess I was happy for him.
But I've bounced back and am in the middle of holiday planning yet again. This time I won't lead on any unsuspecting travel agents, but will do it myself. And this time, we take the girls. To Mozambique. Which, one should note, has just been hit by a cyclone. But I'm sure all will be over by the time we get there with sunny, happy, perfect peeling waves .
I've just about got this one in the can. I have a housesitter, accommodation lined up for the three day drive, a list of must-haves to keep the girls occupied on the road, our tent packed and my husband's full consent and enthusiasm albeit a slight battle in the date commitment area.
We plan to leave in three days.
I'm playing my cards very carefully.Watch this space.
But since the girls were born I've had to satiate my wanderlust with the Travel Channel - which actually just depresses me to no end. I console myself with the fact that this is a temporary state of affairs and before we know it the girls will have upped and left for the world, leaving us with no choice but to don our backpacks and head off into the foreign yonder. Or more accurately I will don my backpack, alone, and head off, leaving Charles to his utopia of perfect waves. "We don't need to go anywhere," he says regularly, "We live in paradise. There is no other place in the world with waves like Look Out point." And this from a man who has searched the globe for the perfect wave - perhaps he knows what he is talking about. He can have Look Out point until he is old and completely bald, but I'm not done - there is way too much for me still to see, and it doesn't have to be on the coast!
Last winter I got a serious bout of ants in my pants and decided that the time had come for us to hand over the children to the grannies and take ourselves off for a "well deserved, big trip." Madagascar was our port of call. I spent hours planning and pricing. I even had two travel agents working around the clock to work out the best deal for us. This was it, we were going! Afterall we had barely had any time for fun and travel between reviving our relationship and producing our offspring and hadn't even had a proper honeymoon. The time was perfect, I believed.
But alas, after all my dreaming, planning and organising, boring old Mr Reality stepped in and pointed out that we simply could not afford to blow our entire savings on a two week surf trip to the jungle. Even if we do "deserve" it. Instead, as a consolation prize, we could go for three nights up the freezing cold West Coast, and sleep in the back of our van - no such luxury as a proper bed. After day one we were hit by the biggest storm on the Cape coast in ten years. We returned home early - me, pitifully hungover after drowning my disapointment with a bottle of red wine the night before and Charles, elated at having surfed an epic 20ft swell with his best friend. I guess I was happy for him.
But I've bounced back and am in the middle of holiday planning yet again. This time I won't lead on any unsuspecting travel agents, but will do it myself. And this time, we take the girls. To Mozambique. Which, one should note, has just been hit by a cyclone. But I'm sure all will be over by the time we get there with sunny, happy, perfect peeling waves .
I've just about got this one in the can. I have a housesitter, accommodation lined up for the three day drive, a list of must-haves to keep the girls occupied on the road, our tent packed and my husband's full consent and enthusiasm albeit a slight battle in the date commitment area.
We plan to leave in three days.
I'm playing my cards very carefully.Watch this space.
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