I DID IT AGAIN…

Oh, I had such plans, such hopes…

The whole summer lay ahead of me with opportunities galore for fun and frolics and visits to faraway places with strange sounding names like Lowestoft, or Waterlooville or Frome. Odd little out-of-the-way communities with names like Beer, Branston or Ham, Sandwich offered the possibilities of ploughman’s lunch themed mini-breaks to while away lazy summer’s afternoons in the pursuit of rest, relaxation and recuperation from the hurly burly modern world and its constant stream of distractions and bother.

Everything was possible, anything could be done, anywhere was an option but then time ticked away and here we are again, the holiday season finally approaching like an express train across the Rocky Mountains or a swift jet hurling itself along the runway, or the kind of boat fast enough to get a “Speed” movie set upon it, and once again nothing is planned, nothing is arranged and the prospect of just sitting at home just being tempted by the keyboard to do nothing different to what I normally do remains a distinct possibility. The trains are packed with travellers whose plans have been successfully achieved, the planes are squeezed full of incredibly well-organised passengers and the decks are awash with doggedly determined mariners, but those vessels will all have left their termini, aerodromes and ports without me when the nights get dark again, as once more I have failed spectacularly to get anything arranged for myself

There were so many places I thought that I wanted to go to. Despite the fact that they were unlikely ever to call me, NASA frequently calls to me, and I really want to see all that astronomical history for myself one day, but, according to the guide books, the “Space Coast” shares its island with a nature reserve containing an appropriately named “Mosquito Swamp”, and it is currently the hottest, stickiest time of the year to venture to those parts, not least because that particular part of the world is in the middle of the hurricane season about now which wouldn’t make it the wisest of destinations unless I wished to spend ten days of my holidays starving in a sports stadium. Meanwhile the delightful prospect of another long anticipated and very different adventure spent driving down the Florida Keys might lead to a re-enactment of one of Bogie’s finest feature films at this hurricane prone time of the year.

California calls out to me to return again, and drink once more of its wine and admire its astonishing light, but the last of the remaining flights are either prohibitively expensive or connect through the most complex cat’s cradle of connections designed to ramp up my stress levels to an unprecedented degree, and yet, whilst the cool blues of the Pacific and the idyllic wine valleys are so seductive, and the Ghirardelli Mall, Mel’s Diner and Boudin Sourdough Bakery all tickle so temptingly at my tastebuds, the baking heat of summer in the central valley means that this is once again not the best time to go for one so pale of skin as I am. September would be a better time to think of going there, but September is a holiday no-go zone for oh-so-many reasons. California, you remain in my dreams as another year slides away and keeps us apart.

The bright lights of the desert city of Las Vegas holler out to me to come and call. The Grand Canyon is there, having waited through eternity for me to be awestruck by it, and the geological delights of Nevada and Arizona are desperate to be explored. James May drove across the desert towards those big city bright lights only the other day just to taunt me further with my own failure. I don’t know. You settle down quite innocently to watch a bit of Sunday night TV and that’s the thanks that you get.

The mostly unexplored Eastern Coast of that continent which I so enjoy visiting still wants me to take a look at what else it has to offer me; the iconic sights of Washington D.C.; the terrifying possibilities of the Big Apple; a return to Boston and another chance to watch those whales once again and eat that incredible seafood, but I know that  I’ve left it too late, far too late again, as another stay-at-home summer slips by. At least there’s a name for it now, the “staycation” (although my fingers want to lift from the keys and throttle me as I even type such a hideous lexicographical amalgam. They would be right to as well,  for such bastardisation of the language is truly unforgivable).

With the options fast running out, we pounced onto the brochures and tried to find out what last minute deals were available, but they all appeared to be uniformly horrible. Beach or “family” holidays based at uniformly ugly concrete monstrosities that look like they were built using the same basic architectural templates that prisons were based upon, in places that are about as appealing as a genital wart. All the slightly more appealing destinations that we did actually fancy going to had nothing available on the required dates, and were fully booked (and probably were as long ago as last August). Sometimes I do so wish I could look forward that far ahead to things, but my conviction that everything’s going to go horribly wrong in my life does make it hard to look forward and plan ahead in any kind of long term way.

These days, I’m even reluctant to buy green bananas.

So another year passes and I become another year older and much of the world that appeals to my limited tastes remains unexplored by me. Places I really fancy visiting like Madiera, Iceland, Cuba or Montserrat remain the stuff of dreams, and I can’t imagine being ever able to take enough time off to visit New Zealand or Australia for the amount of weeks it would take to explore them properly in a “once-in-a-lifetime” visit. Well, not until I’ve retired anyway, and, these days, which of us can hope to live that long?

I’m promising myself that this year, I’m really going to get organised enough to sort out some kind of proper holiday to go on next year, but then, didn’t I say that last year…?