Foreign holiday (part 1)

In the county of Wiltshire, and southwards of the river Severn, which takes its course westwards from Bath to Bristol, lies the Trout Meadow. It is an expansive and relatively remote region of grassland, a stream down the middle of it, bordered by copses here and there. This stream, having its beginnings on the river Severn, where, disdaining to carry onwards to the urban sprawl of Bristol, it strikes off southwards; escaping the rush, din and activity of the Severn, and instead migrating to the country beneath it, flows down its centre; and as it does so, it leaves behind it all the worries of the world and happily pursues its own tranquil course. At times broadening out into lake like expanses, at others slimming right down to a brook, it is in all places serene, calm and tranquil. Yes, whether one is walking in the open, expansive moor; or around the lake looking across to the distant shore and its bosquey margins, or the reedy habitat of the swans that make their home here; or again, strolling through the dark, cool woods, and daring to cross the little rushing brook using the slippery, green with algae, stepping stones; in all these instances one has a sense of calm, of peace, of well-being; a freedom to be so far removed from the rush and chaos of the world. It is nerve relieving, it mollifies all stress. One wants to scream for joy.

In proximity to the expansive lake region lies a caravan park and an ale and eating establishment also designated the Trout Meadow. Unsurprisingly, the waters here abound in trout, so that one sees anglers dotted fore and hinter on the verges of the lake.

Well, I don’t know what it is, but I guess I’ve got one of those faces that so melts people’s inhibitions, that they open up to me and tell me their entire life stories. It is a fault of mine to listen too much, to indulge people, and it’s not a great trait either, because on occasion, when utterly stressed out and wanting only peace and quiet, I have told people, in the full run of conversation, to ‘shut the hell up!’ I am a counsellor, so people say. Yet I came here to relax and soothe my soul; not to listen to people and certainly not to write or generate story ideas. However it never rains but it pours. At least three tales were thrown into my lap as finished articles, and I’ll write up two of them now. Really, sometimes I get the distinct impression that people subconsciously know I’m a writer, and tell me their problems and so forth, in order to put on record their lives, to chronicle their worries, woes and unresolved feelings – as if they accept when they meet me that they can’t solve their problems, so just state them – in order to give an outline of life as we know it here and now, so that, just like the Bayeux tapestry, future generations can look back upon us and perhaps have sympathy with the mess we’re all in. We’re all, at the end of the day, humans in a lonely world, the most advanced form of creature ever to have evolved, slowly and with unsure footing feeling our way into a future which no one has ever explored, an advanced guard, vulnerable and exposed, heading naked into the uncertain, mysterious deeps. Anyway.

Out for a walk one day, I got chatting to an angler Paul, and sat down next to him, on a foldable stool like he, by the waterside.

‘Have you met that family from Bolton?’ he said looking me directly in the eyes, his face lit up with a hint of mischief. He returned his gaze to the water in front of him, holding his rod out as he did.

‘Yes’ I said with a kind humour in my tone. I presumed he meant a northern man I’d met several days previously, a simple, working class, pleasant and sensitive man, here with his wife and little children, who had extolled the virtues of the Trout meadow and the English countryside in general, and who had asked me what sort of philistine need venture abroad, with all that fancy foreign nonsense, when you could stay here and have all you wanted, live like a prince in our Island kingdom.

‘Well’ continued Paul slowly, a calm smile fleeting over his face, as he persisted, while he spoke, in looking out to the lake and not me, ‘well, you’ve got to like him, he’s so genuine. But you know, it would be easy to label him as an uneducated lout and claim that his dismissal of foreign holidays is uncultured and uncouth. You might argue that he lacks the refinement of soul, of say you and I, and is unable to find fascination in the spectrum of customs and manners, tongues and scripts, fashions and philosophies afforded by foreign cultures. But actually I think the reverse is true. I think he’s quite refined to say what he does, and I like him better for it. I mean it’s easy to imagine a man like him, and a family like his, uneducated and unsophisticated, common northerners as you might label them, flying off to the Costa del sol every year, sunning themselves on the beach, drinking to excess, insulting the natives, unable to speak Spanish, rowdy, drunk and abusive, sullying the reputation of Brits everywhere. So when you come across one such as he, outwardly a lout, but at heart sensitive and thoughtful; not one to bunk off abroad on a binge drinking crusade, but preferring to stay here; and appreciative of these lakes and woods you see before us, well I find it quite cheering to my soul.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I can’t stand the small island mentality we have here, the notion that British is best, the three lions, God save the Queen, the union Jack, for king and country, good old fish and chips, bacon and eggs, bangers and mash and I do love foreign culture, foreign cuisine, foreign tongues and foreign ideas, but some part of my soul responds to that man’s words and thoughts. For I too, like him, am intimidated by going abroad.

‘I first had a foreign holiday aged ten with my family. We went to a place called Alcudia, on the Spanish island of Majorca. I can still recall the excitement as my younger brother and sister and I awoke at four o’clock one summer morning and in the quiet calm of dawn, headed in a taxi with our parents to the airport. Then the wait there, my parents looking whacked and stressed, sitting on chairs, as we three children played and ran around, excited and full of beans. Then finally the much anticipated aeroplane journey, we boarded for the first time ever, and experienced the excitement, fear and uncertainty of flying, the miracle of it, our little eager faces peeping incredulously out over the clouds. The land beneath us eventually giving way to sea, just as on a map, though somehow to see it happen, to see the solid earth jaggedly and abruptly coming to a halt and the sea taking over is somehow surreal; as if you never truly believed it happened in practice. Then the thrill of the aeroplane meal, dinky little cups of tea and coffee, the tray with hot beef and vegetables, a bun, a sachet of butter, so like an astronauts meal, so compact, everything in a compartment, a side section with fruit in it, another with cheese and crackers. All so appetising and novel to little children. Then finally the landing, that running thud onto terra firma as the aeroplane hit’s the ground running; and then the first steps onto foreign soil.

‘It was, as my mother said, as though, when they opened the aeroplane doors ‘someone had opened an oven door’. The excessive heat engulfed us, my mother now regretting having brought along so many woolly jumpers and thermals ‘just in case it was cold.’ As we stepped out onto the boiling concrete, the scorching sun now beating down relentlessly, we perceived clearly that this was somewhere very different from home. This was Spain, the Mediterranean. The cool, clement, tranquility of England was a distant memory. We had exchanged it for the alluring, the scintillating, the heat, light and humidity of Majorca. No more the serenity and temperate calm of England, that surrounds us here now; but instead the tempting, sensual seduction of the Tropicana; the blaze and glory of it, the temptation of it, offering something more than we have here; at the same time there was a nasty edge to it, it was savage, the sun beat down continuously, it was as though we had stepped into a pressure cooker.

You know, it sort of induces and parallels sexual feeling. I think here in temperate England, we’re fairly staid and undersexed, looking on sexual proclivity with a cold, distant, almost contemptuous and sardonic eye. We’re not on heat. And with that goes a certain calm, a peace, a tranquility; a modest coolness as though we are eternally in the quiet of life, experiencing that serenity that sweeps through your soul, when you’re sated, mature and content, when your life is over the hill. Whereas in Spain, in the Latin climes, you trade this in to live in a blaze of glory, living to burn, to engage dramatically in life, to sample all that glitters and glows, the scintillating, the brazen, to give in to lust and temptation; and in gaining this you also loose something. For the heat, the sun, is savage, it takes something from you, just like promiscuity, it robs your soul, leaves you slaughtered, hurts you profoundly. The clime, the heat makes you sullen, just like sex does. And I think subconsciously I could somehow see all this, recognise it as we travelled by coach to our hotel. I sat rapturously at the window, watching this novel world unfold before me; seeing the gorgeous deep blue of the sky, the pure emerald green of those seductive waters, the novelty of palm trees, their strange green leaves shooting out of a beige, cane-like trunk; the natives, sun-kissed, dark and brown, strangely foreign yet exactly the same as us. That peculiar sense that here was a totally, totally foreign culture, that at the same time was really just identical to ours. Exactly the same.

‘We arrived at the hotel, went to our room and explored it like a little army of ants, looking at our beds, opening up the wardrobes and drawers, going to the bathroom, running the shower, the taps, flushing the toilet, opening up the peddle bin, delighted by the towels and complimentary soap, ditto the kitchen, then out onto the balcony to survey our dominions, the delight of opening up the mini bar and seeing all the drinks there, our mother yelling at us never to take a drink, for it cost the earth, and picking up the telephone and pretending to dial. It took us perhaps five minutes. Then we had to be out, eager to explore the hotel. We were warned, be on our best behaviour, and then released, I first, my siblings in tow, our parents I imagine, dropping down dead on the bed as the door shut behind us.

‘And so the real orgy of exploration began, as we ran a mock around the hotel, our young, energetic, eager souls desperate to know, see and devour everything. We ran riot, never satisfied, gorging ourselves on the novelty and luxury of this hotel complex, that was to be, for the next two weeks, our home and backyard.

‘Boarding the lift, our excitement overtook us and we went crazy, pressing all the buttons, stopping on every floor, at one of which an Italian man and boy got on, and we were amazed, I mean amazed, to hear them speak Italian and not English. They were both in shorts and flip-flops, the boy topless and with wet, glistening, black hair and a bronzed torso, a towel around his shoulders, having just come out of the pool. The sight of everyone in shorts, of naked bodies and wet hair, the smell of sun cream, the shuffle of flip-flops, all of this gave one a feeling of release and abandon, a desire to bask in the languor of the resort.

When we reached the bottom floor, we spilled out of the lift, sprinting and darting around. The hotel was a beautiful place with a palatial white marble décor. Modern and undistinguished you might argue, but for me, splendid, luxurious und easy. You could stand on the ground floor and look high, high up to the other floors and eventually the ceiling. Anyway we ran around the ground floor, finding an indoor fish pond with a fountain gushing into it ceaselessly; we peeped our heads inside the expansive and plush dining room where they were preparing dinner; then the bar and TV room; and finally we found the shop.

It’s so funny that having a little shop on sight and within access should be such a source of bliss to little children, but we were so taken with it. We browsed the shelves, saw the ice cream, the confectionary, the desserts, the drinks, thrilled to bits to see our old favourites, English chocolate bars and sweets, relabelled in Spanish, and thereby lent an air of foreign mystery to; as well as some indigenous, continental treats. And what with a big wad of foreign currency in our pockets – this was in the good old days before the centralised currency, when all the nations of Europe had their own coins – for Spain the Peseta – we went crazy, indulging ourselves.

We left the shop, I with a Spanish ice cream in hand and mouth, my sister behind with a big bag of jellies, my little brother to the rear, a chocolate bar melting in his hands, half in his mouth, half on his face. We couldn’t have been happier, freer, we were a troupe of little devils let off the leash. And like this we went outside.

We were greeted by the happy, joyous screams of children playing, the splash of people jumping into the pool. The rear of the complex consisted of a hierarchy of swimming pools, in which people dived, played and lounged on lilos; and surrounding which were sun-beds, deckchairs and tables with umbrella shades; where people, mainly adults, sat and smoked, drank, ate, relaxed and chilled, this seated area bordering onto a café and bar. Away from the pools there was a grassy area, where children ran around chasing each other, screaming and playing, then a little further off tennis courts, five a side-pitches, a handball court. Just outside the bar there were table tennis and pool tables.

The complex was vast, and the front of the hotel, where stood a volleyball court, bordered onto a tranquil lake with pedaloes on it. The front was so relaxed and deserted and offered such a get away, such an escape, from the din and excitement of the rear. Solitary anglers would come here and fish. Yes, it was really quite pleasant.

But of course as children, it was the joyous melee of the rear with all its fun and games that attracted us, and ice cream, sweets and melted chocolate in hand, we ran around like little animals on the grass, intermingling so easily with the other children, of all nationalities, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Greeks, Turks, Egyptians and so on. Some dressed so prettily, so neatly in their little costumes, especially I recall two little French girls wearing pink. And how easy it was to mingle at that age, we were so uninhibited. We felt a thrill that here was a melting pot, where all the nations, at least of western Europe, met and parleyed. This was the place to be, this was where it was at. Who could not feel, that wondrous sensation of simultaneously being awed by the might of Europe and yet glowing with pride at representing England. Here to parade, play and show off, hand in hand with the other kings of Europe, a dualism of rivalry and respect, of kinship and common purpose festered in our hearts. So it was.

And this was never more evident than at the table tennis table.

We had hungrily watched on as a Spanish kid sporting a bandana played out a wonder match with a French boy. The enduring rallies and exquisite skill, had kept the crowd of children around the table poised with excitement. We were desperate to play ourselves, and it seemed that it was winner stays on, all-comers welcome. Eventually my turn came, and afterwards that of my sister, each of us playing the dominating Spanish boy wonder; playing with panache, skill and agility, pumped up in the tournament atmosphere, knowing we were playing for England, desperate to impress the crowd. We both played our hearts out, and did our nation proud, yet in the end were defeated by the bandana wearing Miguel, a true professional and sportsman. Defeated yes, but all the same not disgraced. And even though the language barrier hindered communication between ourselves and Miguel, there was a mutual respect between us, a common bond somehow, achieved by challenging each other at sport. We shook hands at the end, we made eye contact and displayed expressions of friendship, unable to comprehend his words, but taking it in good faith all the same, and in our behaviour, breaking down barriers of language and culture, in our uninhibited way, that I think, it’s fair to say, are impossible to overcome when an adult. No, we lose something as adults, it’s harder.

Later on, when my parents had had a siesta, we went to the beach.

That vista, of pure white sand, green emerald seas and cloudless blue skies; of a relentless molten sun, ceaselessly blazing and brazen; of palm trees and sun beds and sun-kissed, bronzed men and women joyously lapping up the sun and enjoying themselves; the visible heat and sun-baked, languid arena; that vista has scorched itself onto my memory, and I can see it now before me. See the never ending heat and glory, its enduring, uninterrupted dominance; the magnificent, pregnant blue sky, forming a tent over the earth, so, so pure and cloudless. The shocking magnificence of a dominant, cloudless sky, the ideas of rain or wind utterly alien; the stillness, the purity of the unblemished Heavens. The humidity, as though the air were saturated and clogged up with an immovable morass of hot particles; and in light of all this, a feeling amidst all the people on the beach of enduring well-being, a carefree joy and satisfaction, as if life and all its worries should just be forgotten about and you could simply lie face down on the sand, soaking up the sun and giving into oblivion. What more was there to live for?

So we had sun cream applied to our backs and bodies and scampered bare foot over the tortuously hot sand and into the water, swimming and lolling about, amazed to see little lance-like fish swimming in the water so near the beach. We walked along a jetty that ran out into the sea and jumped into the water. We would sunbathe inbetween times, and also play the beloved bat and ball game, that young and old alike enjoyed, either on the beach or in the water; and purchasing the bat and balls from one of those tacky, yet somehow endearing Spanish shops, those ones you step into from off the baking hot streets, and you find them so shady and protected inside. On one day we hired a pedalo and went out a gallivanting along the coast, seeing the white sands stretch on forever to the town of Alcudia on one side; and to Alcudia pines on the other side, with its more rugged, natural appearance, of fir trees struggling to grow amidst the rocks and sands.

So we got into a routine. We would wake in the morning and go downstairs for breakfast, and it all being paid for, and it being all you could eat, we gorged ourselves on this feast, in the luxury and opulence of the dining room; in that atmosphere of well-being that pervaded the place, as all the guests came down to congregate and eat, the French especially noteworthy with their kisses, their hugs and their bon appetites. There was so much food on offer, huge trays of all sorts, ready for you to help yourself to, and I made a point of trying everything once. My favourite item though was the crusty bread, and just to see piles and piles and piles of these fresh, crusty loaves made me so, so happy. Really, just the sight of luxury, opulence and bounty, oh this gives one such a good feeling, a feeling of security, of satisfaction. And so with these rolls. I would have two or three, sometimes with apple jam, sometimes with strawberry, sometimes with butter, the charm of confitures in an individual carton never fading for us children; then a coffee and orange juice from the magic machine; followed by a tea and grapefruit juice afterwards, unable as I was to decide between these four choices, even though at home I never had tea or coffee.

Afterwards we would take a courtesy bus to the beach, and there give ourselves up to bathing, swimming, and bat and ball, soaking up the sun and basking in that sauna of well being, in the splendour of the beach, the beautiful women, the health, the youth and the happiness of it all. Yes the beach, the bronzed men and women sunning around, little children playing, a young couple on honeymoon and in love, playing bat and ball in the water. The cries of ‘coco, melona’ as a vendor made his way along the beach. Yes it was in Spain that I first tasted the wonders of the succulent water melon, first saw this exotically coloured fruit, for you couldn’t get it in this country back then. The same was true of the ice cream and ice lollies. Sorbets, I should say, for that was what they were; probably my favourite being a boomy; a wondrous creation comprised of three different parts on a stick: a yellow sorbet lemon, an orange sorbet orange and a red sorbet strawberry. Utterly incredible. And there were sloshes, pizzases, oh what else? I can’t remember…I’m getting sidetracked. Anyway there were lots. Utterly incredible. Don’t let anyone ever say to you ‘well what about the good old British ice lolly?’ Let me tell you it pales in comparison to these sorbet delights. Yes, in terms of ice cream and desserts, the continentals were, and still are, way ahead of us.

‘At dinner time, a hunger starting to develop in us after all our swimming and running around, we would head into a beach café, and have say a pizza with anchovies and olives, or a crepe a la fraise or au chocolat, or even simply a burger and chips. Then after replenishing ourselves it was back out into the sea, onto the beach.

‘Then by four or five, the mood subtly changed. Just the sun began to be on the wane. Don’t get me wrong, by English standards, you could’ve stayed there all night, but there was a slight decline in its heat, in its radiance, it was less brazen, more melancholic and in decline. People started to go home. Many remained, the fun and games continued here and there, but that centrality of feeling, as though everyone was here and this was the place to be now subsided. The people dispersed. Some stayed on, and sometimes we did, determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of the day; but mainly we succumbed to tiredness and exhaustion, and following the general consensus, headed home.

‘It was quite a distance to our hotel, and by the time we had walked back we were foot weary and moody, sun-stricken after this march through the heat. My whole family were tired and irritable as for the next two or three hours we set about showering one by one, washing away the heat, dust and sand from the day; then lying down on our beds in the shade of the apartment, recuperating, getting our strength back, having a siesta. Then at around six or seven things changed once more, we emerged revived and fresh from our chrysalis, ready for our next stage of life.

‘Dressed smartly in clean, crisp, summer clothes; refreshed after our showers and with wet hair; and reeking of deodorant and other pleasant scents, we trouped down for dinner. God it was good. To eat once more in that vast opulent restaurant, a hive of activity, humming, buzzing, as people, refreshed after the days activity in the blaze, now looked forward to an evening of entertainment, rest and fun. All those happy, healthy people, young, alive, vigorous, come here from all over Europe, talking, feasting, orgying on the joys of life.

‘I don’t think I ever ate so well and so joyously as in those two weeks in Alcudia. The food was spread on two long tables, in the centre of the dining hall, and you simply queued up and helped yourself to the buffet. There were tray after tray after tray of different dishes, and each dish seemed in unending supply, as waiters ceaselessly went back and forth replenishing each one, tipping in piles and piles of reserves, constantly replacing old trays with new, so that there was a never ending bounty. Chicken, sausages, beef, pork, and veal; corn, gherkins, tomatoes, mushrooms and lettuce; salmon, tuna, potatoes, bread and butter; and chips, crisps, cheese and crackers – and so, so, so much besides – so that we returned many times with brimming plates, gorging ourselves on all that cuisine, replenishing the energy lost during the day.

‘Then at around eight say, the restaurant would begin to empty, people had had their fill of food and after dinner conversation, and something new beckoned them, they were called out into the cool of evening.

‘Really, it was almost as if a new mood, a new part of the day kicked in, at around eight. You came alive again at this time of the night, now that it was cooler, more habitable; and the dark, serene nights seemed so charming, so full of promise.

‘So we would head outside, to the rear of the hotel, the swimming pool now shut up and sleeping. Sometimes we would have a walk out to the tennis courts and spellbound watch the match. They had those red, continental clay courts, and we would watch the Spaniards play; brought back to life at this cool hour of the day, scampering around the court, the red dust being displaced underfoot and kicking up onto their white trainers; the rally enduring as the last red beams of day came down, that sunset, that epiphany, those last lees of crimson sun, dying in glory as the oblivious tennis players played on. Sometimes we would even play ourselves, but this time on the all-weather courts and under the flood lights in the perfect, dark, cool of nine o’clock; revitalised, reenergised in the cool, running around the court in the thrills and spills of it all.

‘Usually though we congregated at night around the hotel bar area, sitting outside under the starlit night, at a café table, and, in the company of seemingly the entire hotel, listen to some live music or watch the hotel’s entertainment.

‘It was, just like the beach during the day, the place to be at night. This was where it was at. We would find a table and my mother would have an Irish coffee, we children chocolate milkshakes, my father a beer, and then we would let the evening unfold. At times we would run off and play with the posse of other children on the grass; sometimes we watched the table tennis or pool; but mostly we sat down and watched the cabaret act.

‘There was a young blonde woman and a black man who were in charge of this entertainment. Sometimes they sang and danced, on other days they got members of the audience up to compete in singing and dancing competitions. At other times they acted out comedy sketches or held talent contests. For example, in the two weeks that we were there, there was a competition to find the best male and best female in the resort, and a junior version of this too; and here the more uninhibited of the hotel residents put themselves forward to represent their country and to compete against other for the honour of their tribe. They would have to sing, dance, act or perform and the audience would have to vote, by volume of applause, to judge the winner. Yes, we three children were enchanted by these games, to see the beautiful women of the resort, Margherita from Spain, Heidi from Germany, or our personal favourite Debbie from England, thrilled to see them sing and dance, and play to the crowd, enraptured to see how sexy they were, oh, we were impressed. Especially when the seemingly shy and demure Debbie came out of her shell and started break dancing. Then again the men would have to take their shirts off and tense their muscles, or vie with one another in arm wrestling matches; or little boys would have to keep a football up, whilst little girls skipped or danced. Then on other evenings there was simply a disco; and here we sat enthralled, as the songs, those cheap and nasty Spanish holiday songs, which are, all the same, so, so good, so melodic and cheerful, came on, and the women and girls would get up to dance, doing the hand actions, making the moves in synchronisation. What a spectacle.

‘So the nights went by, languid, cool and peaceful, and we would sit there soaking up the atmosphere, our hearts warmed, under the magic Spanish night, the stars like diamonds, the sound of a splashing fountain never far distant. Eventually the night would come to a close, the entertainment end, and incredibly sad at heart and desiring to live on, we children would reluctantly return to our hotel room.

‘And there, sad and depressed, we would, as a final solace, so unwilling were we to go to bed, gently break ourselves in, by sitting out on the balcony, and gently come to terms with the fact that the day was over. It was one last hurrah, one final goodbye. We would sit there in the quiet of night, looking out over the tranquil lake; the quiet calm of night, the ceaseless chirruping of the grass hoppers; the strains of melancholic Spanish music, of the guitar, of the piano, drifting in from a distant hotel. So we slowly accepted our fate.

‘And so, well’ continued Paul after a few minutes silence, in which he seemed to reflect, ‘it was a great holiday.’ He seemed quite a neutral man: never smiling really, never really looking at me, persistently staring ahead at his rod, occasionally recasting his line anew, focusing on his fishing; but I liked him all the same, there was an honesty to him.

‘But, although there were many high points’ he continued again after another silence ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that it was a perfectly untarnished holiday or that myself or that my family were at home in this new environment. That was not true at all.’

‘I think the most profound, upsetting and obvious difference you’re exposed to when abroad, is the sight of women’s naked breasts on the beach. Don’t get me wrong, my family and I new all about this, prior to our trip, but to actually witness it in reality is something different. As a ten year old boy, I was, when we first arrived, somewhat in Heaven, making a protracted scrutiny of all the naked breasts on show, of the young and of the old, looking at them all, comparing size and shape, though to be honest at that age, you love all of those breasts; and deludedly believing that my mother didn’t realise that I was ogling all those naked women. Everywhere you saw naked breasts, you watched enthralled as a woman came to the beach, sat down in her bikini, and then, just when you believed she was perhaps more modest than the other women here, happy just to be in her bikini, she would unclip the back of her top, and hey Presto!, out popped her naked breasts. They were everywhere, and as a child you might say, if you were floating aimlessly on a lilo, obliviously career, as you lay prostrate, eyes shut or to the Heavens, into a pair of naked breasts; or again in the sea, focused on the game of bat and ball, diving here and there, you might accidentally bump into a naked woman, tumble against, collide with, or if lucky, run head on into her breasts; or simply running over the beach, you were forever in danger of corralling yourself into a dead end of naked flesh; the tantalising sight of young, naked women, your steps faltering in trepidation, yet in ecstasy, as you found yourself in such close proximity, running into them head on.

‘Yes, naked breasts everywhere. But I ask you, is that any environment for a young boy to be in? Or a young girl either? What did my sister look at? But more so than this, was this a suitable place for a family? I mean come on. My mother, thank God did not go topless, otherwise I would’ve been mortified, but where was she now left to look? At the naked breasts of young women? Not buxom herself, over the hill, I knew my mother was in a tortuous state of envy and bitterness. And what about my father? Perhaps for him, reserved and prudish, it was worst. Sensitive and intelligent, he would never have been at home here even on his own or in his youth; but in the presence of his wife and little children, God it must have been awful for him, his soul could never have been at ease, at peace here. We all, incidentally, suffered sun burn, our pale bodies unable to cope with the excessive sunlight, and my father was probably the most affected by this. We were all fish out of water to some extent, not quite in the centre of that hive of well-being, where the bronzed, fit, sexy and satisfied people sunned themselves, perfectly at home.

‘But as children it was easier for us to get involved, to take part and not feel left out. I recall one day, my siblings and I, standing on the jetty and jumping in and enjoying ourselves whilst our parents sat on the beach. Then we caught sight of our father walking down the pier in his hat, and all of us children felt annoyed to see him, clearly not at home here, out of sorts, looking unsure of himself in his sombrero, and with his pale, sun burnt skin. ‘Oh? hi dad’ we greeted him reluctantly, our hearts sinking. We just wanted to be left alone to revel in the fun of jumping into the sea. We didn’t want our father here, since he wouldn’t take part, and was irksome and irritating. We felt sorry that he couldn’t enjoy himself, but annoyed since he was such a fish out of water, and couldn’t relax. We stopped playing momentarily and asked him some questions. But we felt stifled and wanted him to go. He, poor man, didn’t know what he wanted. I think he wanted to escape, and came to us to see if we could help him. But he knew we couldn’t, and so he held himself back, unengagingly, and this we found so annoying. In the end our awkward little parley on the jetty came to an end, he told us he was going off for a walk and we, our hearts split with mixed emotions, glad he was going and the merriment could continue, yet sorry for him and sad, that our dear father was so unhappy, watched his lonely, hatted figure walk off back up the pier. It was a sad sight indeed.

‘It wasn’t as if my father was some kill-joy, not at all. In our English holidays for example he was always so active, keen and positive, so engaging, especially in activities like swimming or playing. But here he was just not at home. Later our mother came down the pier to see us. Though we knew in our hearts, we asked her what was wrong with father, and where had he gone to. ‘Oh just for a walk’ she replied. Her tone betrayed that she was upset for him, sorry for him, yet annoyed by him all the same. She couldn’t do anything for him, she was irked and unhappy herself and felt intimidated by all the naked women. He only annoyed her the more.

‘So yes there was a tension in the air, acknowledged, but never spoken off, my dear father at times seemingly down, craving something more. He wanted to go off and look at historic buildings perhaps, to do something of worth, but there were no such things here in this tacky little resort.

‘And my mother like I say, unhappy, jealous, angry and raging to see all these pretty, arrogant, young women. But I would be lying to say that I was simply joyed by the breasts. Not at all. Intermingled with my boyish love of them, I was also intimidated and scared. Many of the young women frightened me, they seemed so nasty, and I felt upset by them, not at peace. I associated those women who kept their tops on with morality and modesty, and I would always watch when ladies arrived on the beach to see just which category they fell into; whether they were good, moral and bikini-clad; or whether they were brazen hussies, who bared all. However even then I realised you couldn’t make such generalisations. For all that though I did, and when I saw a nice, decent woman enter the beach, and saw her take her shorts and t-shirt off, if she happened to go that extra mile and remove her bikini bra, I always felt hurt and upset. I don’t know which was worse: to see an apparently nice girl do it, or to see a hard faced, fag-in-mouth, nasty-looking bitch, expose herself.

‘You know’ continued Paul after a pause ‘the majority of people in this world are unhappy at heart. If they weren’t, what they’d do is go out and enjoy themselves when young and single, enjoying the pleasure of naked women and bare breasts; then when they’ve matured and have a family, say no thanks, that’s not the place for us, for a loving family. But in reality most people are unhappy, lost and disorganised, and are always ready to punish themselves.

‘I think to the good majority of people, like my parents, naked women on a beach induces feelings of jealousy, bitterness and moral outrage. Yet people are so scared of appearing prudish and prim, so terrified of revealing that they are jealous, envious and unhappy in this world, that, instead of staying well clear of such places, they go along as if to try and prove to themselves that they’re cool and comfortable in the presence of naked women. It annoys me it does, that instead of just calmly raising their hand and saying sorry I’m just not happy with this, they bottle up all that rage and indignity and descend on such places, pretending all is fine.

‘But perhaps I’m being too harsh. Take for example my parents. Married when young and innocent, brought up in a world of convention, they’d never really thought too hard about their lives or had the chance to arrive at a philosophy of life; and moreover they hadn’t ever really lived in their youth. They weren’t accustomed to the ways of the world, and probably, never having bronzed themselves naked when young, a good part of their under experienced, unfulfilled selves was attracted to this sexually relaxed environment. Anyway, like I say, the majority of people go through their life without a master plan, following the herd, and so aren’t ever in that powerful position of knowing themselves, of being able to stand up against the pressures of the pack, to say I won’t do this because it doesn’t make me happy. So many people are unhappy in heart and soul, and go around punishing themselves, confused and unsure, trying to conform.

‘And I think it’s fair to say that a good majority of the young naked women, also felt these feelings of moral outrage and envy. Few were the women who, satisfied with themselves in heart and soul, could relax, exposing their naked breasts, simply joyed by the luxury of their body, reveling in the joy of life. No, I believe a lot of those women were also scared and intimidated, and deliberately exposed themselves to try and prove that they didn’t have a problem with it, that they were totally at home in this world. And under such feelings of insecurity, there came to reign on the beach, a bitchiness, a cattiness, as all the vixens of the pack competed with one another, putting down and tormenting with shows of arrogance and hauteur those women beneath them, the older, the less endowed, the morally clad women, the obvious prudes, whilst at the same time enviously eyeing other women, feeling humiliated to have smaller breasts, less well-shaped breasts, feeling angry and intimidated by the lionesses above them, spitefully and arrogantly displaying their superior breasts. No I ask you, in such a tense, cat-like atmosphere, full of sexual tension and brooding, so carnal and primitive, so like the environment of a pack of lionesses on heat in the scorching desert scrub, I ask you, was this any place for young children and families?

‘Perhaps I’m being prudish myself. Actually’ continued Paul after a moments brooding, looking at the lake, ‘I once saw a women with her breasts exposed in England. In a park in Bath it was. I was shocked and terrified to see her, a young girl with big beautiful breasts, sitting in the park with friends. And yet what a look of dissatisfaction was on her face; almost as if she was annoyed, annoyed to have to have such exquisite breasts, needing to expose them and feeling that whilst she had such a perfect bosom, her life was flying by fruitless, unsatisfied and unfulfilled, her breasts going to waste. Yes she was so angered, dissatisfied, perhaps just embarrassed to have to expose them, though expose them she did. I thought it was vulgar, and was upset and sad to find that even here in my beloved, temperate England such obscenities could haunt you.

‘And perhaps I don’t even mean to say they are obscene: it’s simply nice to be able to avoid the issue. I mean to keep the lid on the Pandora’s box of conflicting emotions, that comes by having to see naked breasts. No, all I want to be sure of, is that in England, I won’t be forced to see any. That way I can happily bury my head in the sand vis-à-vis the morality of it. Anyway enough about breasts.

‘Other things upset me besides. The native workers for one thing. Even at that tender age I recall feeling a guilt, as we holiday makers enjoyed ourselves, relaxed, took it easy, wined and dined, splurging, gorging ourselves, revelling in luxury, whilst the native Spanish waiters and hotel staff had to work, hard pushed serving drinks and running around taking care of the guests. I recall that my siblings and I, when playing pool one time, knocked a plant pot off the wall by accident; it fell to the concrete beneath and smashed to pieces. And I remember we all felt embarrassed and ashamed, as the elderly Spanish waiter, unable to speak a word of English, came out, and despite looking old, ill and ready for his grave, got on with sweeping it up, never bothering to shout at us, but just accepting his fate as a beast of burden. I felt sad on his behalf, sad that he was so kind, as if it would’ve been easier for us if he had have lost his temper.

‘On other occasions it was simple wastefulness that must have annoyed the Spanish. Forever buying ice lollies and chocolate we would often only half eat them, for instance if I was called up to the table tennis table, I would simply toss my half eaten lolly in the bin. At mealtimes too, inspired by the appetising array of dishes, we filled our plates high only to find ourselves stuffed and sated with less than half our food eaten. It was so, so wasteful, and the Spanish hotel staff must have witnessed such improvidence on a daily basis.

‘Then again another incident which sticks in my heart was insulting a Spanish woman cashier. Polite and pleasant, one of those calm yet strong Latin women, she spoke perfect English and politely served me at the shop. Then I, mimicking my father, who knew no different, began counting my change, to make sure it was all there – always assuming the cashier had made a mistake. Then aggrieved, realising that I’d been short changed, I went back to the counter to demand of the woman my due; only for her to point out, angrily, and much to my embarrassment, that it was of course I, unfamiliar with the foreign currency, who had made the mistake. I felt such mixed feelings; of shame and embarrassment; upset to see that woman turn angry and berate me; yet annoyed with myself, for I knew that I had made her so, by my stupid behaviour.

‘When we first arrived, we had a meeting with our holiday rep, a common young English woman to be honest, who told us to ‘haggle and make sure’ when we went to Inca market to buy goods ‘that we didn’t let the natives cheat us, because believe her, they would try and con you if they could.’ She again, just like my father, presumably knew no better, but I mean come on, even if the Spanish had been out to cheat us, and I’m not saying they weren’t, such words, such advice was repulsive, common and tacky, I mean what sort of mindset was that to have? Not to let the natives con you. To stand up for your good old British rights. The good old Brit abroad. Not one to be easily conned. The them versus us mentality.

‘Later on we went to Inca market. I was desperate to buy one of these fancy illuminated watches everyone was wearing, and eventually we found a stall selling them. My father, who made the purchase for me, hated to have to barter, yet knew all the same that, to avoid being ripped off, he would have to do it. Poor man. I’m sure he saw the horror of it, but also saw we would be cheated otherwise. He bravely rolled up his sleeves and reluctantly got on with it.

‘We bartered with an old, grey haired, little Spanish woman, and she began proceedings by asking for 3000 pesetas, clearly extortionate. My father immediately acted up and said he’d pay no more than a 1000 and so on. So it continued. At times I, hearing the plaintive words of the Spanish lady, that such and such was a very reasonable price, would butt in, begging my father to just accept the price, and why would the good lady lie to us. But he, knowing better, persisted, driving the price down till it was reasonable. Eventually they agreed, at something not much more than a 1000, and I distinctly recall the old peasant lady then, now that the proceedings were over, sadly put her arm around the shoulder of my taller, younger father and say ‘oh sir, you rob me, you do.’ It was so, so sad, I felt so sorry as though we had robbed her, taken all, when she needed it more and we had plenty. I asked my father, please, couldn’t we pay her a bit more? But he, seeing fine well that this was all a put on and a part of the game, wouldn’t budge. Not because he drove a mean bargain, not at all. He too was clearly hurt by the whole process. He simply knew he had to stand his quarter or be made a fool of.

‘Well it was like that. I went away feeling sorry for that poor old Spanish woman, though in truth, she would never have sold the thing at a loss. Still it was the whole ordeal of the thing, the slag on slag, rat on rat, each man for himself mentality, the mutual suspicion and hostility, the feeling you were being ripped off by dark, dirty, cunning natives; hating yourself for being so mean and suspicious, but terrified of being fooled, and feeling all the same, that whatever price they asked was alright, since we were the rich ones, they the poor. No it was a bad business.

‘Of course relationships with the natives weren’t helped by the fact that none of us could speak a word of Spanish, and I mean not a word, not even amigo or horla, although I guess we learnt gracias and mucho gracias as the holiday elapsed and would make an effort of condescendingly saying it to the waiters and waitresses. Likewise the language barrier interfered with our friendship for a young Spanish boy. My siblings and I had met him one day outside our hotel, and taken a liking to him, that brown skinned, black haired, cute little boy; and he had, when we were playing bat and ball, made up the numbers, so that we could play rallies two on two. Like I say it was so easy to make these sorts of spontaneous friendships when young, but even here, we had problems extending that friendship, and I remember how after the game was over, and in the days ensuing, we tried to talk to the boy and he to us, and it was of course completely impossible. In the end we all gave up; we opting to play by ourselves, he with other Spanish children. Yes, such friendships were soon extinguished, neither party quite knowing who had got sick of whom first. My siblings and I left wondering whether the boy had grown tired of us and left us; or whether, what he had told us when he went off was that ‘he was coming back to play in half an hour or so and would we please wait for him?’ So our hearts were on the line, and later when we saw him playing separately, we wondered if we had upset him or whether he simply had gotten sick of us.

‘And just as we couldn’t speak the language, we were also the archetypical, uncultured tourists. I don’t say that lightly either, for my parents were decent people, we children too, sensitive, just uneducated so to speak. My parents were nearly people. Bright and intelligent yes, just not educated enough, not empowered enough, so that they had a real will of their own, the sort of will that would’ve steered them well clear of such package holidays and sent them to a place more cultured. We were accustomed to, on holiday, going to places of historic interest, visiting castles, museums, animal sanctuaries, historic parts, disused mines and so on, but here there was utterly none of that. There was no Spanish culture here. Had it not have been for the weather, it might as well have been some anonymous, backwater, Northern industrial town.

‘And in lieu of anything cultural or historic, the island was one sprawling mass of cheap, newly put up hotels, bars, cafés and swimming pools, and in order to remind you of this, there were in the neigbourhood of the resort, newly constructed hotels being erected on the spot, surrounded by mechanical diggers and those wonderful tarmac machines, and the horrific noise of road digging, drilling, and construction as yet another anonymous hotel block was built, ready to receive a new influx of uncultured tourists. On top of all that natural beauty bequeathed to the island, the gorgeous white sands and emerald bays, the rugged rocks and pines, the mountains the harbours, the exotic lagoons, there was added to it a morass of roads, airports, hotels and restaurants, a concrete jungle, a sprawling network of cheap and nasty eyesores and noise polluters, blemishing the natural landscape, and rendering heart-sad any native who knew and loved the island in its infancy, in its innocence, purity and deserted virginity. Really the whole tourist titan, that mammoth, terrifying, rip-roaring industry, its tentacles grappling far and wide, its huge wheels set permanently in motion, as an endless conveyer belt of ignorant tourists are flown from A to B, on loud, angry, earth polluting journeys; chucked in a hotel where they splurge themselves for a couple of weeks, eating to excess and throwing just as much on the rubbish tip; then flown off back home, as a new wave of tourists arrive and are regurgitated into the resort; the chaos of the never-ending planes, fighting for air space, vying with one another to land and take off; the never ending supply of tourists being boarded, flown and brought to terra firma, bussed, hoteled, wined, dined and entertained, shuttled here and there for cultural excursions – look at it from a distance and it seems so improvident, wasteful and unnecessary.

‘Anyway what typified that sense of cultural vacuity, were the tawdry entertainments put on by the hotel. We would sit there along with other families and watch as the egotists of the resort got up on stage and sung and danced or performed other types of entertainment, like in a talent show, such as impressions or juggling or break-dancing. In the macho-man contest, the men would strip down and flex their muscles, whilst in the ladies competition, the women would do an erotic dance or striptease. On other nights the cabaret would act out feeble comedy sketches.

‘We would sit there spell bound and intrigued, at least us children anyway. With my parents, I sensed they were wearied and annoyed by it, and I think that was in fact true for us children, really. Certainly I wouldn’t be found dead at such an event now. There was just a tension once more, especially manifest in my parents. When we watched the cabaret sketches we always laughed loud, but in reality they weren’t at all funny, it was simply that the entertainers were cool and sexy and so we were ‘forced’ to laugh. We were scared, intimidated. Yes, that memory remains with me, of my father, my mother and us children all laughing, trying to pretend we were like the other guests roundabout, enjoying the spectacle of this monkey bizarre. Whereas in truth there was a weariness in our eyes, and my parents I think wished to be elsewhere.

‘And again when the ladies stripped and danced we would have to pretend to be enthralled and we had to clap and cheer, but in truth we hated it all. The talent shows, the egotism, the petit rivalry of the nations one against another, the commonness of it, as the audience cheered, delighted by an entertainer, or jeered and booed when they hated them, the erotic dancing and strip-teasing – no, I don’t think in our hearts it truly pleased us. And when afterwards, when the entertainment was over, and we would head off by ourselves, then, in the quiet, stillness of the night, as we skirted the lake and went back to our room, finally by ourselves, then there was an apparent sadness in our hearts and souls, as if really we would have preferred to be elsewhere. As if this were a cultural backwater. And when I compare these balmy nights to the balmy nights we experienced in a summer holiday to Paris, when in the evening we would stroll at our leisure around the Parisian environs, free to soak up the ambiance of the artists quarter, the Seine, the Champs-Elise and so forth, I see then my parents much more at home, much more at peace, especially my father, in that mood of cultured serenity that pervades the French capital.

‘Well and that’s just about it I guess. Add in squabbles with Germans, either over sun beds or which TV channel we would watch, plus the fact that when new English families would arrive at the resort, and we saw that they were first timers, and more prudish than ourselves, we would scoff at them, pretend to be old hands, and laugh and mock when they got sunburnt and felt out of place. Anyway.

‘And so that’s that’ said Paul, persisting to look out onto the lake, ‘a dual edged sword of an experience, simultaneously attracting and repelling one. I think if there is one enduring memory of the holiday, one that etched itself on my soul and which encapsulates the entire holiday, it was of seeing a young Italian girl, perhaps twelve, thirteen, or fourteen, topless and naked, playing in the swimming pool.

‘She was incredibly beautiful and tanned and with lustrous black hair; and her bust, even at such a tender age, was humongous and incredible. And topless and perfectly at ease, she would play, totally intoxicated in the joy of life, bouncy, curvaceous and oblivious of all else, not needing to look at those around her; lolling around in the swimming pool, jumping in, playing water volleyball with her younger brother, noisy, screaming, yelling, completely in the groove of life, so comfortable with her body, the water, the swimming pool.

‘She was so at home, so fulfilled, her brain and soul so abandoned, recessive, and obsolete. She was purely of the body, her spirit of the age-old Latin stamp. She would shout away in Italian, so raucously and thoughtlessly to her brother and parents. And we sat, my mother, my brother and I, a few tables away, unable to stop ourselves from watching this girl with a mixture of envy, incredulity and fascination. We watched on like cold, stiff, Northern people who could never in this life experience the sort of pleasure bestowed upon this girl. Their family was alien to us. The mother and father sat at their table a few yards away, smoking like chimneys, perfectly at home in the presence of their topless daughter; the girl meanwhile raucous, loud, yelling away in Italian, the language of the Latin; whilst her brother played, swam and jumped with her, casual and sated. My brother and I wishing so much that we were him and that we could play with the girl. Then my mother, irritable, with headache, and incensed by the whole scene, angrily telling us it was time to go in; and so we went, I with Boomy in mouth, chomping on that lovely sorbet, giving one last regretful look on that alien, Italian girl, that busty bronzed Bella, splashing around and shouting, totally heedless of all else.

‘Yes, that is the image that stays with me, that of that naked girl, jumping around in the pool; her bosom huge and perfect; her lustrous, black hair falling behind her head; her brow and breasts Christened with the water splashing over her neck and shoulders; her cries raucous and joyous, as the last red rays of the sun came down at the close of day; her face and bosom lit up crimson, in flame. And as others retired indoors, tired and dispirited, she played on enraptured, and abandoned, joyously attaining the high note of life.’