LET’S face it, we Irish aren’t world champions for action holidays. In multitudes we still opt for a coast-hugging Mediterranean break, confining our exertions to a fortnight of indolence and indulgence within a well-worn triangle defined by pool, pub and pension. Despite the recession, almost three quarters of a million such package holidays will be sold in Ireland this year and they will undoubtedly come as a godsend for many a worn-out wage slave.
For a halcyon period of my youth, lounging in the sun without purpose was my idea of utter bliss. But then about a decade ago I began noticing that these extravagant periods of idleness were yielding sharply diminishing returns. I still headed dutifully to the sun and tried my best. I unpacked. I sun-blocked. I read. I sweltered. By day three, however, I was definitely feeling listless and by day five it was clear that acute ennui was setting in. Instead of relaxing I found myself sitting up restlessly in my Li-Lo, gazing at the same languid, lobster red bodies as yesterday and wishing fervently for something – anything – to happen. And when it was time to go home, I usually felt more fatigued then fortified.
Sine holidays are meant to be a treat and an escape from drudgery this failure to chill out began making me feel guilty. Was liable to go the workaholic American way where leisure time is reduced in mid-life, the better to afford a gas-guzzling auto or a home gym? Thankfully, I took a different route. My vacation time is not in danger of being sacrificed for a “deck” or a walk-in wardrobe. Instead I have become afflicted with a modern day addiction that is both expensive and exhausting.
My problem began a few years back, when on impulse I headed for the Scottish hills in winter and was promptly bitten by a mysterious and crafty bug so cunning I didn’t realise I was a victim. All I remember is terrible weather, dodgy accommodation, being cold most of the time, and the heroic absurdity of struggling up a mountainside in the certain knowledge that the summit would be enveloped in the opaque blanket of a Scottish whiteout.
At the time it certainly didn’t seem like fun. Afterwards, however, I wanted to go back. And it wasn’t just winter walking in Scotland. No, I wanted to go wherever the action was – to ski, to explore canyons, to cycle, to climb. And very soon, if adrenalin wasn’t somewhere on a holiday menu, boredom was quick to follow.
With hindsight I now recognise I am suffering from a condition that travel experts like to call New Age Tourism. Victims seem pathologically unable to accept that vacation time should be an opportunity to relax and unwind. For people afflicted in this way, holidays are no longer about where we’ve been but rather what we’ve done. Oblivious to the inherent irony, we struggle to find ever more active ways to relax. We’re downcast if we don’t return from holidays with a full pictorial record of the wreck we’ve dived, the ocean we’ve sailed, the monastery where we’ve uncovered the meaning of life, or the icy peak we’ve conquered.
Our eminently sensible grandparents would never have tolerated such nonsense. If for 50 weeks of the year you earned your crust as a stonebreaker, miner or fisherman you were never going to be a candidate for or deep-sea diving, enlightenment, or mountain climbing on the remaining two. So what they very reasonably wanted to do was step away from the world of unrelenting toil and relax, preferably in guaranteed sunshine. And savvy tour operators such as Michael Stein and Joe Walsh made a very good living by ensuring holidaymakers got exactly what they wanted.
Things are much more difficult today. In an age of individualism, the old certainties of the travel industry are long gone as budget airlines continue to eat the tour operator’s lunches. One tradition remains, however. This is the time of year when tour operators introduce their summer brochures and tempt us with escapes from chilly weather and reality to the likes of Spain, Greece and the Algarve. So one of these days I’ll drift along to a travel shop for the ritual collection of my brochures. Then I’ll dutifully examine the picture-rich pages, full of azure skies, handsome hunks and barely-there bikinis and for one moment I’ll wish to be part of it all again. But my heart won’t be in it.
Sooner or later I’ll put aside the glossy pages – albeit a little sadly – and begin googling glacier-walking in Iceland, outdoor activities in Chamonix or trekking on Annapurna. Chasing the zeitgeist will doubtless have its moments once again on this summer’s holiday, but there’s still a side of me that wishes I could somehow reconnect with my inner Simpson, happily lie back in a Li-Lo and simply go to sleep.