One trip we fondly remember is a trip to Paris, the city of love, where we decided a romantic dinner atop the Eiffel Tower, a nice bottle of wine, and then a stroll along the banks of the Seine would be something to remember in our old age. Photo / 123rf
OPINION
So, here we are in the middle of winter, freezing our wotsits off and I’m thinking it’s definitely time to start planning a holiday.
Just to be clear though, I’m talking once the weather gets better.
I can’t see any point whatsoever venturing out into the big, wide world if you are still having to run outside in your PJs to warm the car up half an hour before you leave for work.
Nope. Winter holidays are not for me. I’ll continue to hunker down inside — log burner on one side, Mrs P and/or George The Dog on the other — until I can go outside without my knees knocking together, although technically speaking I could probably wear long pants rather than shorts to solve that problem.
Having said that, I am so close to going a full year wearing only shorts I’m reluctant to fall at the final hurdle.
Anyway.
As Mrs P and I sat there the other day we decided a week away, most likely towards the end of September to tie in with a big birthday, was just what was on the cards.
Accordingly, planning has begun. And it’s thrown up some memories of holidays gone by as we compare likely venues for our vacation.
For starters, we’ve decided we’re not going overseas. We’re a bit been there, done that to be honest.
Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had some interesting times overseas over the years.
We particularly recall a trip to Paris, the city of love, where we decided a romantic dinner atop the Eiffel Tower, a nice bottle of wine, and then a stroll along the banks of the Seine would be something to remember in our old age.
It was. Except we ended up sharing it with a dozen rather rowdy German travellers.
Let me explain.
We’re on a trip to see rellies in London and we’ve shot across to Paris for a weekend. It was before we were married and, if I’m honest, the thought of a proposal atop the famous pointy spire had crossed my mind.
In fact, it was at the forefront when we were shown to our table with a magnificent view out across the city.
As I stared longingly into the eyes of the hottest chick in the place, I noticed some activity out of the corner of my eye and my concentration was broken.
Confusion set in when three large tables were added to ours and we found ourselves sitting at the end of one long stretch. Within minutes tablecloths, cutlery and glasses had been added by an army of waiters who then ushered in 12 middle-aged German tourists who, it must be said, were rather er, “tired and emotional”.
Oh well. In spite of the noise, I refocused my attention on the beauty opposite and was just about to pour her a glass of the nice bottle of Chateau Something Or Other we’d purchased earlier when a large, sweaty German hand reached over and grabbed it, presumably thinking it was one of the many in use for their share of the table.
Normally in such situations I’m quick to respond but the absolute brazen nature of the act threw me and before I could utter a word of protest, the thief and the bottle were at the other end of the table.
It was then I knew I’d found the right lady to share the rest of my life with.
Mrs P leapt to her feet and was off.
I don’t recall exactly what she said and it’s a fair bet the Germans had no idea what she was on about but the whole bunch of marauders went silent as my little pocket rocket snatched back the bottle from the stunned thief, made one of those finger-pointing gestures accompanied by raised eyebrows and head held slightly to one side — the kind of expression a teacher may use when suggesting an unruly pupil might not be wise to take their actions any further — and marched triumphantly back to our end of the table.
Obviously, it didn’t take long for the Germans to recover from the shock and the noise soon returned. I have no idea what they were saying but I suspected they were making fun of the thief who still looked a little shell-shocked.
Eventually, we left and had our walk, arm in arm along the banks of the Seine. Incredibly, perhaps 10 minutes after we’d begun strolling, the same group of Germans poured out of a bus across the road and, good-naturedly, started shouting to us as they disappeared into their hotel.
At least I presume it was good natured. Regardless, it was a holiday we wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
But no. We wouldn’t be venturing overseas this year. We’d do something simple, maybe a bit closer to home.
Suddenly, Mrs P had an idea.
What about that lovely little spot we’d stayed at down the line that time a few years back? It catered specifically for motorhomes and there were just five parking spaces so wasn’t too busy. It was handy enough to everything.
We’d parked our motorhome up. Enjoyed bushwalks. Swum in the creek each day. Read books under the trees. Had a drink in the little bar close by. We’d even had access to the showers at the golf club next door.
I agreed. It was a great break. And for the length of time we were thinking of, it would be perfect.
Before I could comment further, Mrs P was off on the computer doing some research.
A short time later she returned excitedly with the news the dates we wanted were available, the reviews were still excellent and, apparently, the golf club close by now offered meals as well as use of their shower facilities and a round of golf at reduced rates if we wanted.
Mrs P was eager to make the booking there and then, so I let her head back to the computer and tap away for a few seconds before ambling in to ask a couple of questions.
“So this is that place we stayed at in the motorhome is it?,” I queried. She nodded.
“So it’s still just for motorhomes is it?” She nodded again.
“And remind me again, where is our motorhome?” I said.
I’m hoping wherever you are you heard the delightful, genuine laughter that came out of My Beloved as she suddenly remembered a very important fact in the context of the holiday booking she was about to make.
We no longer have a motorhome. We sold it about three years ago.