Close my eyes? Read a novel? Feel rested? No way. As a single parent, holidaying with my two children Lola and Liberty, now nine and seven, has always felt like a marathon. I’d come home needing a holiday.
I’d be lugging Bugaboo prams and bottles up and down to a beach and getting in and out of rental cars in the heat, also with my elderly dad in tow, and still never get the chance to relax on a sun longer by the pool, or sea, because of a terror of children drowning. But, still, I’d never liked the idea of those holidays with kid’s clubs that so often conjure up water slides and blue bubble gum ice cream on tap – against a backdrop of screaming. It seemed better to go it alone.
