on holidays

As a young woman holidaying in Boat of Garten, Inverness-shire, so the legend goes, my aunt was rebuked for declining an invitation to play golf in favour of resting: one doesn't have rest days on holiday. Doubtless the comment was tongue in cheek, but perhaps there's more truth in it than we realise.

The prospect of a month in the Rhone-Alps (affordable because we were to house sit) was wonderful. Childlike, I pictured golden days stretching on for ever. The fact that during such golden days I had copious amounts of work to do on my university major project didn't detract from the potential colour of my time here. There would be hours when I simply wrote and edited. Ones when I'd venture into this beautiful part of the world and milk it.

We've been here for three weeks now. The first few days were languid, relaxed in the assurance of many to follow. Now we gather momentum like some whirligig, aware our last week approaches and there's a lot we haven't yet done. And I still have a major piece of writing to complete which in fact is happening between outings or during motorway drives, rather than being allocated 'whole days', because I can't bear not being out and about.


This is not a moan. It's more about recognising that resting is what we'll be doing once we return home - and maybe what many people do after a holiday. My partner and son will manage that on their annual camping trip which follows soon after our return to Scotland. For me the subsequent three weeks will be devoted to completing university assignments, then there'll be a period of unwinding before the next era of my writing life begins.

The task for me is to accept that leaving here will - as always - be a wrench.

Knowingly yours


jane