Two in There!

Staring at my now tea-speckled computer screen, agog, I can barely believe my eyes.

£609.

six hundred and nine pounds. for four nights. midweek.

And that’s the bog-standard, 4 walls and a roof offering, with only the most basic amenities to equip you for your stay. And they have the bloody cheek to call it comfort’ accommodation. The middle of the road offerings between £749 and £949 depending on how fluffy you like your towels, whether you prefer the convenience of a hairdryer, and the option of a brick bbq, which lets face it in the middle of English spring, is not likely to be overworked. The top of the range lodge is £2099, which you would hope came complete with self-making beds and a golden goose, but alas no. You’d be forgiven for assuming that we’re planning some extravagant respite somewhere, mingling with the upper echelons of british society, however the reality is this is the cost of a short break at centre parcs.  I wonder if they call it a break due to the detrimental affect on your poor bank account?

Being spurred on by the effects of the recession and the resurrection of the good old fashioned British staycation, we’ve been mooting the idea of a few days at centre parcs with some friends of ours. Little did I know we’d need to sell our organs on the black market to afford a ‘wee break’. How could one possibly enjoy four days in Cumbria when it’s costing so bloody much? In four short days I know I’d feel compelled to squeeze every ounce of worth out of my stay, biking at dawn, kayaking at lunch, abseiling in after tea. I’d need a holiday at the end of it just to get over the stress of having to get my money’s worth!

Shocked, I raise my concerns with my other half who chews over this new information for a few moments before offering up this gem:

” If money’s the concern then you’d be best looking at Haven. Centreparcs is like Sainsburys;  people pay more to not have to mix with boiled-sweet eating idiots,  that wear rangers tops for the duration of the holiday and piss-and-moan when they cant find a copy of the daily record. Thats the beauty of it.”

“That said, kids would have fun if you took them to a skip for a fortnight.”

It’s true that centreparcs is perhaps the top-end of British holiday parks (if they’ll even allow us to refer to them as that), but it’s something that’s geared at the demographic we find ourselves wandering aimlessly in; 20/30 something professionals, and their young children. Granted, you get some bang for your buck in terms of ratio of  activities in close approximation to your locale, but still – can we really justify it? I mean, that’s in Cumbria; that’s barely even in England!

It’s at this point that my mind starts wandering.  For that money, in fact, less than that money,  we could have a week in a delightful little gite in the South of France, with its own pool, and microcosm of all things wonderful and French. There would be wine, cheese, and pastries-a-plenty.  Sunshine, and no doubt that wonderful joie-de-vivre that comes with surveying your delightful surrounds and truly feeling like you’ve gotten away from it all,  included in the price. Weighed up against the possibility of spending a dreich four days, quite possibly in wellies, tromping through the countryside and marvelling at acorns and rabbit poo, it seems infinitely the better choice.

The little gite on the banks of the Dordogne comes with no kids clubs and no plethora of pre-arranged outdoor pursuits. This doesn’t phase me; instead there are numerous little villes et villages to explore, not to mention Bergerac, Bordeaux and St. Emillion, heart of wine country to enjoy, complete with bustling markets and every other french stereotype us brits enjoy so much. At this point it sounds like heaven to me.

It’s then pointed out to me that as this would be a self-catering holiday, as centreparcs would be, I’d be doing the exact same things I do at home; the very things you’re supposed to go on holiday to escape.  Suddenly, a wave of unwelcome images start infecting my beautiful French daydream; shouting about the mess, picking up after everyone, spending the day trying to manoeuvre buggies through cobbled streets and through pokey shop doors,  and collapsing into my bed at barely gone 10pm from the sheer exhaustion of entertaining a brood of under threes and doing everything for them.  This is not what I want to think about.

“Bagsy not entertaining the kids”

Well, we could always just put them in a dinghy on the Dordogne, with a packed lunch and a distress flare, no?

Sod it, maybe we’ll just book an all-inclusive week in benidorm, and spend a week in the sun, mingling with all the other day-glo pink brits, wondering where it all went wrong.

Our baby is a genius; having been in an extremely rare and difficult position (oblique-cephalic) for the past 6 weeks, I went to the hospital today for a presentation scan and to book in for a caesarean section after being assured yesterday ‘your baby is over 38 weeks now, it will not turn’. Yet, when I was scanned today, our clever little wombfruit had managed to free itself and engage deep in my pelvis, meaning I can have a completely natural birth when the time comes, which is fantastic news. I’d resigned to that fact that I was going to deliver by section and had begun mentally preparing for it, so finding out now that I can do what I’d planned from the beginning is a huge relief. Yes, it means hours of pain, physical exertion and utter exhaustion, but it will absolutely be worth every second as soon as I have the baby in my arms. So, it’s really just a matter of playing the waiting game now, and thankfully no more leaning on my hands and knees for hours trying to coax the baby into the pelvis. Roll on the spicy food, long walks and….um, “other physical activities”