A Staycation Under a Pandemic

At last, schoolchildren don their uniforms once again after nearly six months of freedom in casual wear as they all return to the classroom. At the same time, employees return to their offices, well, at least some of them do anyway, whilst others see the pandemic as a good excuse to carry on working from home. After all, who wants to have a truculent boss breathing down the back of the neck with the words, Is that the best you can do? - thus raising stress, anxiety, even panic levels?

With one of my best friends away in Italy visiting I Scavi de Pompeii with Oak Hall, a Christian holiday group, and advising him not to dig his heel into the ground when addressing a hill with a hole at the top as Mount Vesuvius, but instead, address it as Monte Vesuvio whilst over there, Alex and I enjoyed a few days on the East Dorset coast. A staycation, one of those newly defined words which its true meaning remains unclear. Does it mean to go anywhere for more than 24 hours within the UK, or even just in England, or does it mean a respite from having to go to work yet not leaving home for more than twelve hours at a time?

Pompeii with Monte Vesuvio, visited 1973, 1982. Stock photo.

And such as the meaning of the word holidays as evolving in its original meaning from a day or a week of special religious observance to that of a week or two by the seaside, to a trip overseas to a foreign resort, usually at the Mediterranean, and lately, a long-haul international trip. At least in America, the word holiday means exactly that - a day of special religious observances such as Easter or Christmas. For trips away, they use the word vacation - to vacate the home for leisure purposes, and a word we nicked from them to use as a root word to mean to holiday in the UK.

And so the newspapers deliver one distressing news story after another. Such as today, when our Government announces with a very short notice that from tonight everyone who returns from Portugal must self-isolate for two weeks, whether anyone has the virus or not. And the amount of stress that alone inflicts. Many who have to return to work, now have to announce to their employer that they can't return on the agreed date, thus putting their jobs at greater risk. And yet, ministers from all parties, including the Tories, have cried out for our Prime Minister to have these quarantine issues replaced with individual testing at border entry, like with all other countries. Like that, everyone who is tested negative can live on as normal. But instead, our PM remains obstinate, despite the cries from the public and ministers alike.

Yet, despite the need for passports, tests for the virus, the likelihood of quarantine, the filling of entry forms and other border issues, there is nothing more exuberant than relaxing as the plane takes off and soars into the air, passing through thick cloud and emerging from above it, the clear sunshine overhead causing the cloud to reflect in brilliant eye-dazzling whiteness, thus quickly forgetting the grey dullness and drizzle underneath. Or on a clear day, watching the English coastline recede as the plane flies over the Dover Straits of the English Channel, only to watch the French coastline approach whilst the English side is still in view. That sensation that the UK is behind as a reminder that foreign soil is already beneath and the holiday is well underway.

I suppose it has all to do with our British cool temperate climate, which features cool wet Summers, particularly in August, in the midst of the English school holidays. Indeed, where resorts such as Morecambe, Blackpool, Filey, Brighton, Bognor Regis and many more traditional resorts were in their heyday thriving with holidaymakers as they flocked into penny-machine amusement arcades whenever it rained, the consumption of cod and chips wrapped in a couple of sheets of white paper, and the daily stroll along the windy beaches was at its heights during the fifties, the quest for sunshine opened up a world of package trips throughout the sixties.

And so the foreign holiday became less as a reserve for the well-to-do and became reachable to the common people. Ah! For the daily dose of uninterrupted sunshine! And the need for passports, visas (in some cases) the growing threat of airline strikes, watching travel companies rise and then fall (as one major aviation company, Court Line, which was also the parent company of Horizon and Clarkson Holidays, went bust in 1974) and the rise of tourist rip-offs which left many as victims of an unexpected expense, including those paid for the treatment of uninsured victims of accidents or illness whilst abroad, or not properly covered by their insurance policies, those wretched clauses found in the Small Print and easily overlooked by the holder.

At least with us, with a staycation, there are no worries about any of these border-control issues, rip-offs, airline strikes or health insurance, although it's my opinion that train travel will never hold a candle to the smoothness of a flight. I say this, although a recent change in the timetable has allowed the running of faster trains, with fewer stops and quicker journeys.

And so we arrive at Bournemouth Station after a fast and flawless journey. When we arrive at our hotel, a Whitbread-owned Premier Inn pile right in the town centre and with clear views of the coast, there were alterations which I have found to be annoying, yet realising that such is necessary during this COVID-19 pandemic. And one of these alterations was for compulsory booking for breakfast, already paid for, when checking in at reception.

A view of Bournemouth Beach from East Cliff.

Since all the more popular timeslots were already taken, we booked for 08.15 for each morning. Which means we had to wait to be seated at the entrance like at any Pizza Hut restaurant. When we were seated, it was no longer the well-cherished self-serve system characterised with this major hotel chain. Instead, it was waitress service, for which to order the food was a prerequisite. And confusion.

For two mornings in a row, due to a mix-up with another customer, the food failed to arrive. And on one of the mornings when again we had to re-order, Alex's serving arrived but not mine. When I asked about my order, I received an apology and soon after, it, at last, arrived, only it wasn't quite what I asked for. However, I just smiled and thanked the young lady for her efforts, as I have found out, the hotel restaurant had only recently re-opened after a long lockdown and the staff was barely trained. However, mornings are not the best times of the day and to one man I estimated to be in his late twenties or thirties, I had a bit of a moan.

After breakfast, I apologised for being so grumpy, just as my beloved had said recently, that I tend to be moodier in my old age than I was in the past. He turned out to be the hotel manager, and I showed interest by asking various things about running a hotel, particularly when facing extra but unnecessary expenses such as loss of keys, door lock replacements and so on. The way the conversation went, I got the impression that I was the first customer ever to see him as a human being and not as merely an object of convenience. In the end, we weren't that far from becoming friends.

But the difference between waitress service for breakfast and the normal self-service is as wide as the Grand Canyon. For me, there is something special, indeed, even romantic, about walking towards the large array of choice to fetch breakfast for my beloved, who prefers to remain at the table in her wheelchair. If there was a queue, the waiting was only momentary, for the choice was wide and easy to access. However, going back to my backpacking days, nothing was so adventurous and thrilling than to buy my own groceries to take back to the member's kitchen, then cook my own meals while at the same time talk to and make friends with a fellow traveller who is also cooking at the next stove. 

Or going back to the seventies, when all the hotels I was staying did not serve breakfast. It was easy for me to find a nearby coffee bar and bought and ate what I liked and needed. Plenty of those coffee bars in both Italy and in the USA, although back in the seventies, in America I found Greyhound Bus terminal cafeterias were great places for meals at any time of the day. Both in 1977 and 1978, no matter which city I stayed at, each morning it was straight out of the hotel, to the nearby Greyhound Bus self-service cafeteria. It was heaven!

Oh, those days. Indeed, those were the days, my friend, I thought would never end. That is, until the onset of the Coronavirus pandemic. 

This new world of facemask-wearing in enclosed spaces including all shops, trains and buses, social distancing, to be reminded not to get too close to a stranger (as I did in neighbouring Swanage) the fixed bookings for breakfast, can't shake hands (as I would have done with the hotel manager when checking out) along with the inability to hug, all makes this beautiful world of humanity a mere shadow to what it was and which I'm so used to.

As someone recently wrote in a newspaper, encouraging us to pray hard that no world war would break out, as this generation of snowflakes, so he says, would not be able to handle it. Personally, I'm extremely fortunate to live in a war-free era of British history, and grew up to take for granted all the niceties I described above, therefore I have much to be thankful to God for. I guess much is to do with personality or temperament. The vast majority of my brothers in Christ I have ever known seem to prefer escorted or group travel, Oak Hall being on top of their list. If that is what they desire most, then may God bless them richly. For me, I prefer lone travel, which can have its own pitfalls, which are left for me to resolve.

Like the day Alex and I took a bus to Swanage. The 66-minute bus journey included the chain ferry crossing to Studland Bay, a very different scenery to Sandbanks on the other side of Poole Harbour, the world's second-largest natural harbour after Sydney Harbour. Sometime after arrival, Alex agreed to remain at the harbour for an afternoon kip while I set upon a dayhike around Peveril Point, that part of the geological phenomena I have been familiar with since I was a schoolboy.

Peveril Point, Swanage. Stock photo.

This involved going all the way around the peninsula instead of staying on the official footpath which cuts across it, in order to maximise the rewarding views across the bay. Therefore I was confronted with a challenge to scramble over some large boulders which, with a bit of calculation plus a good dollop of agility, I manage to scramble up successfully without hurting myself. The views across the fully-inhabited Swanage Bay on one side of the Point and the view of the uninhabitable Durlston Bay on the other is for me, breathtaking scenery.

And I had my video camera. For the first time ever, I hope to post the video onto YouTube. But I may need some advice from those with the experience to show me the right way to do it.

All these scenic coastlines witness of God's love for aesthetics when creating this dramatically beautiful world. And even if the pandemic has made the day-to-day living that little bit awkward, slightly less comfortable, and an apparent curtailing of our precious freedoms, yet it goes to show that God still holds the reigns, his sovereignty is fully trustworthy, and his salvation is offered to everybody who wants it. Indeed, I can be thankful in every way for our dear Lord to allow us to have a staycation in the first place, and to reveal his goodness towards us regardless of the pandemic restrictions.