Attitude is key when going on a singles holiday
Going on holidays used to be simple. I’d get together with a few like-minded pals; we’d trawl through whatever brochures we’d picked up at various travel agents – yes, this was in the pre-internet days.
We’d pick a spot and pay our fares and fly off full of anticipation, our rucksacks crammed with books and bikinis, and new sandals that would cut the feet off us for the first few days, and sun cream with too low a factor. We’d go to the discos at night, our noses plastered with foundation to hide the sunburn. We’d meet a gang of lads, usually Irish. There might be a fling or two over the fortnight, but we generally managed to fly home with hearts still relatively intact. A few months later, maybe just after Christmas, someone would produce the next crop of brochures, and off we’d go again.
This happy state of affairs lasted until my late twenties, when one by one my holiday companions got dressed in white to walk up an aisle on the arms of their fathers and down again with a brand new husband, and by the time I hit 30 I was left without a single fellow traveller when July and August came around. What was I to do? As I saw it, I had three choices: sit around and mope for two months as I looked out at the Irish summer rain (warmer than winter rain, but just as wet); head off alone and take a chance that I’d fall in with a few like-minded travellers; or check out singles holidays, where I’d be presented with a readymade, and hopefully friendly crowd.
To be honest, the notion of the latter didn’t grab me at all. Singles holidays seemed like the last refuge of the unwanted, where those who’d failed to find a partner were forced to hook up with a bunch of strangers so they wouldn’t have to holiday alone. But the alternative of a solo trip was a far scarier prospect. I imagined myself checking into a hotel room for one, and maybe going an entire day without talking to another soul, and eating dinner each night with just a book for company, and I cringed.
With a few buddies around to give me moral support I’d chat away to anyone, but striking up a conversation with someone when I’m morally supported by nobody was and still is simply beyond me. Without a pal or two I retreat into my shell; I sit quietly on the fringes of other conversations, trying not to look as if my companionless state bothered me, but in reality feeling utterly conspicuous and self-conscious, and hoping to God someone will take pity on me and draw me into their company.
And the only remaining option, staying at home for the summer, waking each day to the inevitable leaden skies or the sound of rain pelting against the windows, was worst of all. I’d be thoroughly miserable, compelled to hate every tan I encountered in the street, and to watch every holiday programme (of course I’d watch them) with gritted teeth. In the end I realised there really was only one way to go, so I swallowed my misgivings and checked out the singles holidays on offer.
The first thing I noticed was that there were quite a lot of them. Plenty of options, from coach tours to beach holidays to cruises, plenty of destinations, throughout Europe and beyond – but back then (we’re taking early nineties) most of the operators seemed to be based in the UK, which meant I’d be travelling solo to my destination if I booked from Ireland, rather than meeting up with at least some of the gang in the departure airport. Not a major consideration, I decided – so after weighing up the various choices I plumped for one of the British offerings: a two- week holiday in Greece, with the first week spent on the island of Kalymnos, in a large villa that catered for up to 30 occupants, and the second on a boat with accommodation for a dozen that cruised around the neighbouring islands. I reasoned that I stood more of a chance of success with two separate weeks. If life at the villa didn’t grab me, the boat hopefully would.
I packed my bag, giving myself a pep talk as I rolled up dresses and t-shirts and sarongs. Don’t overthink it. They’ll all be on their own, for all sorts of reasons. Smile and chat and be yourself. For the first time in my life I boarded a plane alone, surrounded by family groups and couples and gangs of friends. I felt horribly out of place – was I literally the only solo passenger? It felt like it. I kept my nose buried in my book (Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway) for the duration of the flight, my anxiety increasing the closer we got to our destination. What had I done? Why had this ever seemed like a good idea? I reminded myself that I loved Greece, that it was only two weeks, that I’d still have the sun and the sea and the delicious food. When the drinks trolley materialised I ordered a large gin and tonic. It helped a little.
And you know what? After an initial half hour of awkwardness while I got to know everyone, I had a really pleasant two weeks. My fellow guests in the villa were predominantly British, just two other Irish, but we all trucked along more or less contentedly. There were a couple of bitter and disillusioned divorcées that I learnt early on to avoid, and a man from Northern Ireland who made no secret of his aversion to all things (and people) south of the border, but by and large the company was lovely, and the food as good as I remembered from my last Greek trip, and the week passed off very nicely. Sadly, the two divorcées had also opted for the boat trip – and avoidance isn’t that easy on a smallish craft – but I did what I could, and overall I felt the whole experience had been successful, and worth repeating.
Two years later, off I went again. This time I chose Turkey as my destination, a country I’d never before visited. The same butterflies accompanied me on the flight, but I told myself it would be fine.
It wasn’t fine. From the start, I felt out of place. We numbered about 20, ranging in age from 30 to 60 plus, with pretty much an even gender mix. So far, so fine – but most of them had arrived a couple of days before me, so they’d gelled without me. We were all staying in the same mediocre hotel – dated décor, no air conditioning in temperatures that hovered close to forty, bland food, offhand staff.
On my first night, after a mainly silent dinner, I was invited to go with them to a nearby bar. Now generally I’m a big fan of bars, but this one had music so loud it hurt your head, so talking was out of the question. I decided the only thing for it was to swill my wine and smile a lot – and then, horror of horrors, the Karaoke session began. I was far too sober to last for more than one off-key rendition of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart, so I mimed jet lag at the others and beat a retreat. That first night set the tone for the rest of the fortnight. To be blunt about it they were a dull lot, not inclined to chat, with no great interest in doing much of anything except sit around by the pool during the day, and go to the same hellish Karaoke place by night. After a couple of days I did my own thing, and nobody seemed in the least put out. By the end of the two weeks I still hadn’t learnt most of their names, and I doubt that any of them remembered mine.
Since then I’ve been more circumspect. I’ve chosen holidays with added interest: cooking in Valencia, painting in Italy, walking in Scotland. Some have been great, others less so. A singles holiday is a lottery; certainly the company matters, but your own attitude is crucial to whether you enjoy it, or spend the flight home telling yourself never again.
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