This page offers a gently mocking look at my so‑called “favourite holiday,” which turns out to be anywhere mildly warm, mildly interesting, and safely distant from drunken Brits, baffling menus and the creeping terror of speaking schoolboy French. It reflects on the small comforts, quiet escapes and modest ambitions that shape the kind of break I actually want, rather than the one I’m supposed to enjoy.
Why I love going home
My favourite holiday destination is, predictably, somewhere mildly warm, mildly interesting, and mildly unthreatening. The sort of place where I can pretend to be a cultured traveller while actually behaving like a man who once got lost in a French supermarket because he panicked at the word sortie. In other words, the perfect British holiday.
If I had to choose one place, I’d say the Mediterranean coast, but not the glamorous bits. Not Monaco, where everyone looks like they’ve been polished or the Amalfi Coast, where even the cliffs seem to judge you. I prefer the slightly scruffy towns. Faded shutters, a beach that’s mostly pebbles, and a café where the waiter looks permanently disappointed in my pronunciation of bonjour. That’s where I flourish.
Why is it my favourite? Because it allows me to maintain the illusion of being “abroad” without the terror of actually engaging with the local culture. Every British person knows the horror of attempting schoolboy French in front of a native speaker. You rehearse “J”e voudrais un café, s’il vous plaît“, in your head for ten minutes, deliver it with the confidence of a hostage, and the waiter replies in perfect English anyway, just to put you out of your misery.
Then there’s the expat problem. You go abroad to escape Britain, only to find a man called Keith who moved out there in 2004 and hasn’t spoken to a local since. He corners you in a bar and explains, unprompted, how “the UK’s gone downhill” while his sunburn peels off in sheets. You nod politely, because you’re British and therefore incapable of escaping a conversation without apologising.
The greatest fear of all, the one that haunts every British traveller, is encountering other British tourists. Not the quiet ones. The loud ones. The ones who start drinking at 10am and end the night singing “Sweet Caroline” in a voice that could strip paint. You hear them before you see them, like a weather warning. You immediately pretend to be a Scandinavian of some flavour or another.
So yes, my favourite holiday is anywhere warmish, quietish, and unlikely to contain a stag party from Luton. A place where I can sit by the sea, order the same safe meal every day, and feel momentarily like a more relaxed version of myself. A place where the biggest challenge is choosing between shade and sun, and the biggest triumph is successfully ordering ice cream without accidentally asking for a small goat.
My favourite holiday is the one where I can escape Britain, and, ideally, the British, for just long enough to remember why I love going home.
Further Reading
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