Esther McCarthy: I’m going to the dogs — or on hols with them
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
The family and I are on our holibobs in a camping resort.
Well, camping is a bit misleading. We’re staying in a lodge with two en-suites — you could hardly call it roughing it, in fairness.
We have a gorgeous air-conditioned cabin with a spacious wooden deck. There’s every modern convenience you could want. I mean, there’s a full-sized dishwasher, for goodness sake!
I suppose you could call it bougie camping. The five of us are staying in a massive site with different zones, multiple restaurants, a sports area, lots of pools, slides, classes, and activities.
It’s a dog-friendly resort. Jaypers, they’re mad for their pooches over here.
I’ve noticed multiple prams with little doggos peeking out, like ugly hairy babies. There’s even a special pool and activity timetable for dogs.
But there’s also a veritable smorgasbord of delights for two teens and a 10-year-old (does anyone know when is it officially ok to call them tweens?).
And yet they appear to prefer to hang out around us, and I find myself acting as an unwilling referee, sorting out silly sibling spats.
Because while I may have been meticulous about what made the cut for our onboard luggage (Michael O’Leary’s airport heavies and their scales of wrath ain’t getting a penny more outta me!) I still managed to bring all that pesky emotional baggage with us.
But... I’m on holidays too! Do they think I like getting on their cases? I don’t want to be the nutjob mammy — that’s Cork Esther.
Spain Esther loves a good ole mooch in the morning, reading books, drinking coffee, and eating croissants.
She sips a beer at lunch with the nonchalance of Clooney in a Nespresso ad.
She wears shorts out to dinner. These are likely to be the same shorts she wore for her mooch. She doesn’t wear make up, and her hair answers to no one.
She is one chill senorita.
Picking jocks up off the picnic table with a martyred sigh isn’t her cup of tea either.
Or using emotional blackmail to persuade them to empty that fabulous, full-sized dishwasher.
Or losing the plot because the middle fella isn’t wearing his retainer, feeling a little tic go off under her eye as he explains calmly that he’s worn it long enough, and actually he doesn’t need it anymore.
Cork Esther has to muster all her patience and willpower to prevent herself from shouting the number of euro that comes out of the direct debit every month for that glob of metal and plastic.
Then she has to curse lack of said traits before gibbering like a madwoman, gesturing wildly at his gob, eyebrows waggling, voice going up several octaves, scaring the wild cats outside, trying to explain, for the millionth time, that he just has the wear the blasted gob glob.
Meanwhile he is stroking his jawline and arching an eyebrow and trying to make her laugh, then administers a shoulder massage to his poor broken Cork mammy.
I think we could all use a break from that Esther. She’s no fun.
So I decide for the rest of the holiday to pretend this is the very last break we’ll all have together. I read somewhere it’s an effective ploy to trick yourself into not sweating the small stuff, and let the minor irritations wash over you in favour of focusing on savouring precious moments.
Because, I know it’s a cliche, but it does go by so fast. Yesterday, we cycled past those water fountains that have coloured lights and unexpected spurts, and I’m catapulted back to our 16-year-old’s first time in Spain.
We brought him along to a friend’s wedding, because we couldn’t bear to be away from him for too long. He was two and we were besotted.
I so vividly remember his delight at running through the water on the street, his screams of laughter when the gush of water would catch him unawares.
Every new thing he’d see, all his firsts, we marvelled as we saw the world anew through his perfect hazel eyes.
But hmmm, wait, how long more will he want to come along on family holidays?
How long before playing table tennis with his mam and dad in a holiday camp just won’t cut it as his break?
Oh my God, maybe I don’t have to pretend! Maybe this really is it. Our last holiday, all five of us.
Next, the middle fella will fly the holiday nest (possibly with a crooked smile) and then our youngest will want to go away with his friends instead of us too!
My babies! Noooooo!!
On an unrelated topic, does anyone know how long it takes to get a passport for your dog? And how big a pram do you reckon I’d need for a lurcher mongrel?
