Hi Everyone,
The fine art of doing nothing is not part of my DNA. When I was a child, my family thought taking a holiday was a preposterous concept. Around this time of year I would watch other families in the neighbourhood pack up their car (typically a station wagon) with all sorts of inflatables, ice chests, pets, pillows—sometimes my playmates even left in their pyjamas (imagine!)—maybe even (my dream) a vacation diary in pink with a golden lock and key. While I wondered at the chaos and hasty goodbyes, and the marked-up maps for long journeys to places like the Grand Canyon or Lake Michigan, I did not wonder about that diary, its lock and key.
In the fine order of our home I found my own holiday comfort, the odd, quiet corner to read (always acceptable) and meals served on time, where everyone played their alternating part—set the table, clear the table, load the dishwasher, sometimes even make the meal. Then in the midst of all this order and responsibility, one day my father announced we would take a holiday. He also claimed he would barbecue. I, of course, envisioned a lovely diary and key.
At that time, imagining my father chargrilling or cooking meat on a spit was totally out of the ordinary. Trying to picture him in anything other than his blue US Air Force uniform seemed impossible. Maybe he would wear the khaki one? Who knew? I certainly couldn’t envisage him in a Hawaiian shirt, flipping burgers, grilling chicken. My father was making an effort here, and as he got wildly excited, I could see it, too. Of course it would involve his boat.
He had a Chris-Craft (I think) sort of power boat for deep sea angling, and his idea of a holiday was a weekend, technically 24 hours, when we might, without sunblock, go “fishing for food”—delicious corvina to stock up the freezer, or the dreaded “chum for the sharks”. Didn’t we just love seeing migratory sharks chase the boat? Of course these were not really holidays, but God bless my father, 24 hours was about the max he could take away from responsibility, getting something done, accomplishing. Even a weekend fishing trip was a tick box exercise. Weekend, check, fish, check, take out the boat, check, kids, check. Holiday, check. And yes, he did once hold a wide spatula in a regulation white tee-shirt and khaki trousers while someone else grilled and basted the corvina.
In all fairness, the fine art of doing nothing did not escape my DNA entirely. My mother’s family owned a summer home and I vaguely recall visiting them, and yes we did a lot of nothing. Lots of activity that added up to zilch on schedules that did not run “on time”—although I am now sure my grandmother was keeping watch, bedlam well managed. Beach umbrellas, towels and blankets, picnic hampers did make their way back to their rightful places to be found again the next day.
Recently, with all my beloved responsibilities halted, I took a mini-holiday to the South of France. I forgot all the prep work required, the packing: new bathing suit, hat, chic dinner attire, comfy shoes, and red gel nails. Check, check, check, check, check. While I did not fly in my pyjamas, I was cosy, and while I did not have a pink diary with a key, I did have my handbound journal. Blessed with picture perfect weather and the beach club open, I made my way to my appointed sun lounger. While sitting under my umbrella, feeling the sunny warmth and watching the amazing, fiery Mediterranean’s blue-green waves roll in, I knew I had arrived—at the fine art of doing nothing. Yes, a well-deserved holiday!
Wishing you the same in May 2026!
Love,
Photo by neify l iStock