When everyone cries on the family holiday

On mosquito bites, meltdowns, suncream stand-offs and more

Greetings from Spain, dear readers. I have escaped my family to get some writing done — as necessary for paying the bills as it is for preserving my mental health, especially while abroad.

I don’t know about you, but every time I go away, I’m reminded that I am the worst version of myself on holiday. Yet still, every year, I book our annual getaway with delusions of lounging in a head-to-toe co-ord, freckle-dusted, glowing. In reality? There is no glow. There is no ‘hot girl summer’ unless by ‘hot’ you mean inflamed.

I currently have at least 17 mosquito bites, all screaming for attention. Think less “beach waves” and more “beached whale.” My skin is breaking out in protest at the unholy mix of suncream and actual sun. My hair is a homage to mid-80s Patrick Swayze — plastered at the roots, puffed out at the ends. The second the plane lands, I’m bloated. Then comes the constipation. Then, inevitably, the period. Which ties all of the above together with a neat, hormonal bow.

Eventually, I surrender. There’s no point trying. I skip the photos, reach for the third chocolate croissant, and wonder how early is too early for a Cava Sangria (which, by the way, is far superior to regular wine sangria and now my drink of the summer).

Despite my clear Celtic incompatibility with life above 15°C, I can usually still say I’m enjoying myself. I don’t need to be a bronzed goddess. I thrive in mild Irish weather. But I can still switch off, ignore my phone, drop the schedule, and find joy in the quality time. That was the hope, at least. And I had dared to believe that, by almost five, our gorgeous boy wouldn’t be so thrown by a change in environment. Especially given I’d just written about how positively he’d responded to one recently.

But alas, this is not that trip.