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The Holiday Snob

Holiday Snob
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Jenny Coyle is in the anti-camping camp…

I’ve got one fundamental belief about holidays – the experience should be superior to that available whilst ‘staycationing’ at home.  For that reason, I don’t partake in medieval reenactments, voluntarily use chemical toilets or ever try to cook dinner over a naked flame in a soggy field.  I’d rather stay at home than anywhere rated less than amazeballs on Trip Advisor.  I see no earthly reason to pay good money on polyester-sheets and pine-tastic furniture, even to stay in a scenic spot.  Someone sort it out and get a boutique hotel going, pah-lease.

I confess, I’m a holiday snob.  I’m picky as all hell when it comes to voluntarily leaving my natural habitat of city streets, and orange-tinted night skies. Ye olde thatched cottage at the end of ye leafy lane:  screams ‘unspoilt rural utopia’ to some, and ‘here could be murderers, they’ll never hear us scream, with crappy wifi and no-where to get a flat white…’ to me.

I know, I know.  It’s not big and it’s not clever to break out the rictus grin when good friends (actually, not that good friends, or they’d know better) suggest celebrating a major life milestone with a weekend of camping.  “Talk me through this,” I say.  “So, this big old birthday, featuring a number ending in a zero, and we’re going to mark it by making like we don’t have permanent roofs over our heads, indoor plumbing and some high thread count sheets? Can I send a jerobaum of prosecco instead?”  Walking holidays, weekend walks, hill walks, bloody country walks… I don’t have the footwear, inclination or faintest shred of interest.  The last time I attempted a bracing long-distance stroll, I called a cab at the halfway point – what, we have to walk back again?

Problem is, there’s only so many European city breaks in posh hotels before you run out of cities (and money).  Here’s where I bow down to the greatness that is Air BnB and all the other lovely home-rental sites out there.  The perfect solution to my family’s desire for a holiday that runs past a weekend, and my desire to slink around some new shops, galleries and cafes.   On a recent trip, I dutifully asked the host for recommendations for places to go out of town.  How very happy I was when she curled her Gallic lip at me and shrugged.  ‘For me, there is only the city.’  Now, that’s my kind of holiday.

Follow Jenny on Twitter at @MissMitford

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