Last Monday proved that the August Bank Holiday has lost none of it’s attraction for those wishing to escape to the sun for a few days. British airports were once again packed with people hoping to get away from it all before the onset of autumn. Over the years I must have spent many exhausting days of my life organising passports, parking, kennels for the animals, changing currencies, getting inoculations, and checking in the bags, enduring the ever increasing security measures: jackets, shoes and belts, and sitting around departure lounges waiting for flights that may, or may not be delayed. Having completed the customary novelty stroll around the duty-free shops, buying those last minute things which, quite frankly, one didn’t actually need apart from, that is, a bottle of cola because the guy in security had confiscated my other one. I’m convinced that they’ve done a deal with the stores beyond customs ensuring a guaranteed clientele of thirsty passengers. Then one simply has to wait..and wait. In all, from leaving home to this point hours and hours have past and we’re still no nearer to getting on an aircraft. No wonder we need to have a good sleep when we get to the other end even though it consumes an entire day of our allotted holiday time. It was on one such occasion that my mind harked back to a time when my parents would simply book a holiday to a British resort and we’d all just go. We’d go; we’d arrive, unpack, and run down to the beach. Job done. Well, this week we did just that. Liz, our grandson Joshua and I drove down to Bournemouth for a few days. I rediscovered the excitement of a family holiday that involved nothing more than sea, sand, and perhaps a couple of evening shows or going to the matinee performance at the cinema because of the inclement weather. So here is my postcard to you. “Dear all, having a wonderful time, weather great, (sunny and warm every day), eaten far too much. Joshua now makes the best sandcastles in the world. Wish you were here. See you next week. Lots of love, Liz, Joshua and Richard xxx”. Now, let’s break those few words down. We did have a wonderful time because we didn’t have to worry about making an effort. There’s a lot to be said for that. No language barriers or trying to explain to a German chemist that you need something for that tummy bug. The weather? Come on, this is Britain and we’d borrowed a seven year old child for the week. Trust me, the weather didn’t matter one iota! As it turned out the weather was fantastic: it didn’t rain all week and on at least two occasions we struggled to find shade! We ate far too much, but at least we knew what we were eating and we hadn’t gone to Bournemouth for an education in foreign gastronomic delights, or to eat fish n’ chips in Sams English Breakfast Bar somewhere in Benidorm. Oh, we did tell one lie on our postcard: we didn’t actually ‘wish you were there’: sorry.