Julie Jay: We may spend the rest of our lives trying to recreate a special weekend

As much as it kills the Irish cynic in me to admit it, the weekend we spent in Longford was fairly close to perfect, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.

The night after our holiday, I asked Ted what his favourite part of his holiday was, presuming he would say the magical forest, the pool, or the boat trip. “My cousins,” he said. 

Last week, I went to Center Parcs — fuelled by cynicism and fully certain I would end up vowing never to staycation again. Having attempted extended family holidays before, I would be lying if I didn’t say I had a touch of trepidation about the trip because the reality is holidays can be hard. Ironically, the pressure for things to be perfect is what makes them anything but. In chasing perfection, we often forget that kids are generally happy with chicken goujons and a relaxed bedtime.

The thing about family holidays is that they rarely pan out like you expect or dare to hope they will. Holidays are intense, usually fraught with tensions and punctuated with bouts of dehydration and mild sunstroke. But this holiday was different, not just because it was the first time I had holidayed with my three cousins and their respective partners and kids, all hailing from camping strongholds like south Dublin and Sheffield. And, as much as it kills the Irish cynic in me to admit it, the weekend was fairly close to perfect. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.

My anxiety levels were high in the run-up to the trip, and not just because I had once again forgotten to do my bikini line in preparation for the pool. Arriving on a Friday, I was running considerably late — I'd forgotten about a radio interview about bringing kids to festivals. For the 10 minutes I was on air, I argued that festivals were legitimate places to bring children, which was nicely undermined by my parting shot when I confessed that I had decided to forego Electric Picnic for nights of lake, pine tree, and a comfortable mattress.

I'd heard rumours about on-site prices, so I decided to do a huge food shop en route to our destination, almost losing our eldest while dashing around the aisles (please see last week’s column for details). I blame my brief misplacement of Ted on the fact that I temporarily lost my mind and chose to purchase a ham and cheese jambon, a cottage pie, and a fish pie — nothing screams ‘holidays’ like the smell of smoked cod through our shared accommodation.

The shop on-site in Center Parcs was virtually on par price-wise with regular supermarkets, so I was lugging packets of organic carrots up and down the country for nothing. While I envisaged landing in the wilds with only my scant scout skills to get the fire started, I instead landed in the equivalent of Kildare Village... but with more opportunity to wear togs.

The only real complaint was my attempt to enforce a healthy eating rule during our weekend break. Come Saturday morning, my fruit bowl was positively overflowing with oranges, bananas, and apples.

“I’m taking a photo of it now and again on Monday, just to see if anyone actually eats some fruit,” joked my cousin.

Julie Jay: "I forgot my jambons," I said to another husband, whose look of visceral alarm told me that he had misheard jambons as ‘tampons,’ making this a conversation we will never refer to again to spare us both the blushes. Picture: Domnick Walsh

I responded as if this was a direct challenge and started scoffing satsumas quicker than you can say, ‘Scurvy who?’ Come Monday, I was utterly thrilled when my fruit mountain had disappeared and my vitamin C intake increased by more than 500%.

You could do a rake of things with the kids, but given mine are still so small, I chose to keep activities at a minimum. The pool was, of course, a highlight, despite the fact the inflatable ring I had purchased had arrived with an extra hole in it, a surprising perk given that I’d only paid for the one with the valve. Thankfully, my cousins saved the day by purchasing a new one, due to the fact I had left my ATM card in the locker (note to self, I will be keeping my card in my swim cap next time round).

Before we knew it, the baby was back in business and the star of the show as his cousins took turns bringing him to the baby pool for splash attacks.

As we parted ways, a cousin and I commented on how this holiday had been like something we had never had before. Another cousin’s husband said "we have to do this every year now" and it solidified that I wasn’t going crazy, that this had been Hallmark levels of idyllic. Trundling towards the carpark, one of the husbands said: "We will probably spend the rest of our lives trying to recreate just how special this weekend was, but we’ll never get a repeat." And that is even more evidence — as if we needed it — that while the Irish are wistful romantics the English are grounded in pragmatism, if somewhat pessimistic.

"I forgot my jambons," I said to another husband, whose look of visceral alarm told me that he had misheard jambons as ‘tampons,’ making this a conversation we will never refer to again to spare us both the blushes.

Usually, when I'm on holidays, no jambon gets left behind, but this one was so jam-packed with joy we didn’t even need our delicious pastry and cheesy treat.

So, if you were lucky enough to open your Center Parcs freezer and discover some surprise jambon, you are welcome.

The night after our holiday, I asked Ted what his favourite part of his holiday was, presuming he would say the magical forest, the pool, or the boat trip.

“My cousins,” he said.

It was a reminder you don’t need jambon to have a good time when you have good people. Still, it’s always good to have a stash in the shared holiday freezer, just in case.

It turns out that Longford is the Lanzarote of Ireland, only with less volcanoes, which is surely a good thing.

We can't wait to go back, but we might leave the fish pie at home next time.