Most kids when they’re 13 or 14 are being taken on holiday to the Canary Islands, the south coast of Spain or, if they’re really lucky, Orlando, coming back to school with hair braids and amazing tans. Not me. I was traipsing after my parents to various corners of the British Isles.
I can’t imagine I was very pleasant to be with on these kinds of holidays. I was a stroppy enough teenager even without being forced to spend two weeks in the middle of nowhere with nothing more entertaining than pretty views and quaint tea rooms.
My parents choice one year was a tiny village called Crovie, a two hours’ drive down the Scottish coast from Inverness. The village is built on a ledge between the cliff and the sea and is completely inaccessible by car. We woke up in the middle of one night to find the waves were so high they were washing the downstairs windows. It is unlike anywhere else I’ve ever been. Anywhere else I’ve ever even heard of. A village almost completely untouched by the 20th century.
I think if I went back there now I’d be a bit happier with my lot. Plonk me on one of the window seats with a good book and a steady supply of snacks and I could be fine for days. But even ten years later expecting me to spend two weeks there would be a bit much.