Travel broadens the mind, it’s alleged. Though I’m not sure a week in Tenerife counts. Still, off we headed, countless pairs of socks and jocks lining our non-colour coded suitcases, looking forward to escaping from the gloomy Irish weather, and getting away from it all.
With no plans to broaden our minds whatsoever.
The kids had been counting down the days and weeks in the months leading up to it. I was dreading the packing, and the fact that my daughter wasn’t going to be able to accompany us this time. Not only because she was leaving me with all these boys, but because the plane might go down and we weren’t all together. Not that I’d want her to die too, of course, just that I hadn’t given her the mortgage protection insurance details and since most of that stuff is tucked up safely in my head, she was going to have a nightmare trying to track everything down in the event of a sudden aeroplane-induced death.
Anyway, not one for dramatics, I texted her calmly from the runway, with all the details I could remember, and the last known location of my will. I also told her how much I loved her and contacted my own parents asking them to watch out for her in the event of my untimely demise.
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“Jennifer, would you give that over,” my mother replied appreciatively.
“Ahahaha, you’re actually serious”, came my daughter’s loving reply.
There was nothing left for me to do but settle into my four and a bit hour flight and learn all about Kerry GAA courtesy of the gentleman sitting next to me.
The smallest dude, sitting in the row in front of me, braved looking out the window a few minutes after take off. “It’s okay. We’re up in the clouds now. They’ll catch us if we fall,” he told his big brother who was beside him. And I promised myself that once I was back in Ireland I’d learn how to swim, in case a plane I was on ever went down in the sea.
And so it came to pass that, with midyear resolutions made, we touched down in Tenerife, ready for the cultural and holiday experiences that awaited. The thing about holidays with children is that it’s largely the same chaos in a different location. It’s also the same Euros in a different location, if the timing fits, but without the ability to understand what the commentators on the telly are saying. Still, we could understand what the English fans who had descended on Tenerife in their thousands were saying. Something about it coming home.
The best thing about being a kid has to be the ability to just walk, or swim up to complete strangers and make friends. And so that’s what they largely did. Sport is a great starting point. One small child modestly explained to a little boy from Leeds and another from Aberdeen, who he had met in the pool, how he had made a save during his own football training, that was comparable to Turkey goalkeeper Mert Gunok’s save against Austria. And so new holiday friendships were born.
And it almost worked for the adults too. The games co-ordinator organised water polo (which very strongly resembled water rugby) with all who were willing to participate. When your family is its own version of rent a crowd getting numbers together is pretty straightforward. And so the mighty Hogans took on a group of twentysomething English lads and, fair play to them, didn’t they only beat the team that had a load of children and a middle-aged woman on it. “One nil, Brexit”, one big strong lad roared endearingly, as he ploughed by the eight-year-old.
But look, I’m not bitter at all.
It was nice to see them win something this summer.
Evenings were filled with card games. Well at least until one child questioned the sexist nature of 21s during a hand he was losing due to my king holding a higher ranking than his queen. He wondered how I could be okay with this. So, we moved to charades for a time, because it’s less controversial.
And then there was the joy of meals out that you neither have to prepare or clean up after. With Elvis impersonators for entertainment. “I think the person who sings this song is quite well known”, one younger child whispered excitedly in my ear, unaware that The King wasn’t renowned for having a Birmingham accent.
“Are they all yours?” I was asked for the 100th time that holiday as we sat down for our final meal. “So many boys”, he continued but without the sympathetic head-tilt I’m used to when people note this.
“I have three sons, two daughters. I wish I had five sons instead,” he said, somewhat unexpectedly.
Anyone for charades?