Not one, but two. Two of New Zealand's top beaches. It said so in this very paper. Herald readers had cast their vote. We were just there. Swimming and splashing at one of them. Trying not to stare at the South American backpackers with their big round bottoms straining to break free of their tiny bikini pant prisons at the other. Such a good time we had. Summering with some of our favourite people. Eating like greedy pigs. Drinking like thirsty fish. Stone fruit and Kiwi onion dip and gin cocktails. We had the time of our lives and last night we arrived home. Fatter. Testier. Filthier. Bone-tired.
Holidays will do that to you. In the pursuit of relaxation we knock ourselves out. The pack up and the pack down. The readying and the disassembling. And in between, all that carousing. My childhood holidays were inevitably bookended by my parents' cross words, and I have no doubt my own children's memories will be similarly coloured. Their father impatient with their mother's need to clean the house before setting off. She by his eagerness to stow bags in the car before they're done.
Usually you don't spend every precious moment with those you love the most. You are at work, the kids are at school. He's out with friends, you're at book club. And that's probably a good thing. I remember the first time I holidayed with young children, and I was dismayed to realise while the scenery might have changed there were still nappies to change and carrots to puree. Of course, at 9 and 13, my children are past all that, but while at home they are usually in bed early enough that we might, if lucky, and can keep our eyes open long enough, enjoy an hour or two of adult time, this holiday they ran amok until long after the sun had gone down. It was wonderful … for a few days. After which I grew desperate to see the back of them. But even when they were finally down, and though the days were long and action-packed, sleep did not come easily. My husband snored — too many beers aboard. Our dog paced — too many rabbits about. And I tossed and I turned.
Naturally, all good things must come to an end, and on the final day of a holiday I am always conflicted whether to make the most of those last hours, arriving home with a carload of dirty washing, work tomorrow, and neither milk in the fridge nor fruit in the bowl, or getting up, packing up, hitting the road and arriving home with time to reset. Usually my fondness for order and routine wins out, but this trip I quelled my usual anal retentiveness. This is the life, I told myself, as we departed for home at day's end, our clothes made damp by wet togs, skin tight with salt, thighs prickling, burning against hot, sandy seats. A third of the drive under our belts, we stopped for icecream. This is the life, I told myself, upending a caramel milkshake into my lap. This is the life, I told myself, as I inexpertly tried to talk my husband through backing the boat down the drive, while he screamed, "Your left or mine?" as a line of cars banked up both ways.
Staggering around the park this morning, repenting for my sins, neither I nor our usually manic dog managing much more than a shuffle, I bumped into a friend. Good holiday? she asked. Great, I yawned. It's true, you know, she said, smiling sagely, no one needs a holiday more than the person who's just got back from one.
