The not-so-merry widow, first time flyer, Wales and Corfu.
I am a widow, there, I have said it, well, written it.
I want to thank my husband and our children for this.
None of this would have happened without them.
Here, before I begin on my ramblings, I feel the need to explain that I have experienced periods of mental illness. I have been prescribed medication and talking therapy. Members of my close family have suffered clinical depression and schizophrenia, stress, anxiety and a whole host of otherness of the mind.
I have worked professionally with and alongside adults, children and their families who are affected by mental illness. No two people are the same and no two people will have the same experiences.
This is my story.
This is what I found.
I will share my experience of flying for the first time, flying alone, booking a solo ‘package holiday’, visiting a different country for the first time, getting through the airport (both ends) and how I solved the mysteries of travel such as ‘check-in’.
Before you laugh, I have never flown, never been through an airport, and I found it torturous sinking into the boggy rabbit hole of search engines, to find answers to what I thought were relevant and simple questions.
I started out writing this as a single article, until I very quickly realised that without background, and context, it wouldn’t be any different to any other ‘travelog’.
The reason I set out to write this was because NONE of the travelblog/travelog/’guide to…’ etc, related to what I wanted to know, or to people like me.
Whichever of the ‘helpful hints to single travel’ or ‘guide to singles holidays’ I managed to find, none of the participants in the travel were quivering wrecks, incapable of small talk and not looking to ‘make friends for life’, oh and STOP TRYING TO SELL THINGS!!
I know copywriting at a 1000 paces.
At least if these so-called guides are part of a business, they could at least have the decency to have a real human experience behind them.
Apologies to any travel writers that are quivering wrecks, not looking to make friends for life, and not selling things, I couldn’t find you when I needed you.
I am not selling anything. I write because it is better than talking to myself, or boring anyone else with my ramblings. If nobody reads this (thank you sincerely if you are actually reading it) at least I have had the pleasure of putting my words on ‘paper’.
So, mustering up all my well-hidden courage, daring to be different, and adding a sprinkle of tempered, belligerent, ‘I’ll do it my way’, I will just share my experience.
I hope this might be useful to those who have never travelled.
It might of interest to those who are toying with the idea of flying for the first time.
It might be of interest if you have found yourself not part of a couple any longer, for whatever reason: it changes things. It changes how you see yourself, how others see you. It changes what you enjoy and how you enjoy it.
I found nothing that seemed to relate to me in all the travel guides. I did however find snippets here and there that resonated, so the hope is that this may add to the snippets you need.
I booked my holiday on a whim back in very early January 2022.
I wanted a holiday.
I deserved a holiday.
Part 1 – The not-so-merry widow finding her single pair of feet.
Pre children, my husband and I were spontaneous holiday makers. Travel abroad was for other people. We just jumped into the car with possibly a tent and most of the times, the trappings needed for a camping holiday, and headed west-ish to Wales, North Wales. We did have a few years where we travelled to North Devon too.
The pattern that emerged was that we would head for non-flat locations with trees. It had to be green, very green. We had an OS map of Great Britain. This made the choosing of destinations really easy.
OS maps are easy to read; the oranger the area on the map — the higher the land the greener the area of the map…the greener the land!
North Wales.
A very well worn page from our Road Atlas of Great Britain.
Life was quite exciting pre-Google, lots of surprises depending on the age of the map. One almost certainty though, was the orangeness of the page in relation to the terrain to be visited didn’t change. Mountains are rarely moved, knocked down or re-routed.
My first full holiday without parents and siblings was not so much an adventure as a sharing of a wonderful experience.
At the grand ages of 17 and 20 my husband and I went right back to the very same place I had always visited. A beautiful, terraced cottage in Harlech.
Since as far back as I could clearly remember I had my holidays in one of 2 cottages in the ‘cliff-top’, castle crowning village.
Those that have visited Harlech may protest at the cliff-top description, as the sea is about a mile from the castle. Those that know their history will know that when the castle was built the sea battered the stone face it is perched upon, hence a cliff.
I’m happy to be corrected on the geological and topographical labels attached to the rock/sea combination.
So, I shared the treasure of Harlech as a holiday destination with my husband whose only experience of the seaside had been a couple of day trips to Blackpool and Brighton.
After the passing of the holiday cottages owners, A very English couple who had settled in Wales after WWII, following our pattern of hills, mountains and greenery we ventured south
exploring pastures new. North Devon. We went, tent in hand (car actually) for a few years, until child 2 came along and the double-the-length journey proved a less than enjoyable trip.
Between or annual trips to Harlech we stalked Wales with daytrips every few weeks. Armed with a flask and later a camping stove, sandwiches and various sugar laden snacks, we would escape the Black Country for the mountains, rivers, forests, streams and beaches. The weather didn’t matter, New Year’s day or mid-summer were equally as beautiful.
It was inevitable then, that we returned to Wales with our now 3 children, caravans and tent were the thing.
Precious Memories
We had one less than successful cottage holiday to the mid Wales coast. Not the problem of Wales, or it’s coast, or cottage, more the unscrupulous English owners of said cottage.
This was followed by a holiday of holidays in a Welsh hillside farm cottage.
Miles from civilisation (although the railway was a walk across the field) where the children wandered freely, and we wondered freely. Sadly (or not) most of the holiday was spent car-less. Breakdown outside the cottage door, a trip to a garage in Barmouth who declared it unfixable, fixed in 30 minutes on the last day after a nod from the farm owner towards an amazing man and his amazing machines in Tywyn .
From that year on we did the tent/caravan tango until 2020.
Then I became the not-so-merry-widow.
From the age of 14 to 56 I had been a couple or a couple +1,2,3.
Now a part of me had gone.
Like a lizard I had to try and grow a new bit of me to make me whole again, so I didn’t fall over.
The regeneration
This meant ending my career in education.
This opened up the wonderfully liberating option of term-time holidays!
Having to take a holiday in the school holidays is expensive.
If you have never had this restriction, go and have a look. Whether you book independently, through Airbnb , or use an agent, It’s often double the cost compared to the rest of the year!
If you are looking for your first term-time holiday, you will be spoiled for choice, Home country or abroad, school term time is the best time!
For those of you with children, the cost of a ‘fine’ for taking YOUR children out of school for a week is a pittance compared to the savings.
Add to this the inevitable benefits of precious family time.
As travel restrictions seemed to be lifting, I sat down on 2nd of January and started to plan.
Part 2
The not-so-merry, not-so-brave, not-so-mended widow.
New year and new determination meant I was going to have a holiday in 2022.
I was feeling brave, I wanted to go alone.
This felt like a sort of rite of passage, something that had to be done, that I wanted to do.
It stemmed from the animal desire to find a hilltop and bellow from the bottom of my lungs after my husband died.
There was a simple physical obstacle.
I don’t drive.
I couldn’t ask for a lift to a bellowing place, that would have been awkward.
Equally awkward would have been getting public transport. There is something about the sudden loss of a loved one that makes you think that everyone that looks at you knows. They are going to ask questions that you don’t want to answer. You are terrified that you will break down into a snot and tear-stained wreck and not be able to get back up again.
It never happened to me, and I have never witnessed such an event. The fear is very real though.
Rightly or wrongly, we seemed to manage to deal with our loss by laughing hysterically at EVERYTHING.
We pledged to each other that we wouldn’t go insane and that if we noticed one of us falling by the wayside, we would give them a sharp poke with something to get back up and laughing.
We laughed when one of us started to cry,
we laughed if anyone said ‘sorry for your loss’.
Not to their face of course, not laughing about any particular person saying it, we just felt that it was a hysterically funny phrase at the time.
Not sure we poked each other enough with sharp things in the early days.
Anyway, the need to bellow faded but I was still left with a want to moon around in an ethereal manner, preferably alone in a wilderness.
A cottage in Harlech had been discovered. Not one we had visited, but one I had vivid memories of, passing it most days on the way to the beach if we went ‘the cave way’.
This cottage had actually been discovered the previous autumn by my son. A random find whilst he was looking for a place as a base for a hiking Snowdonia holiday with his friends.
As soon as he showed me the picture I was transported back. A million memories, sounds, smells, words, assaulted me all at once. I felt like I was in a fainting scene in a movie, blurred images swirling around me, echoey voices, you the sort of thing.
Writing now, I can hear our sandal clad footsteps echoing down there, the smell of fresh bread is drifting down from the bakery, on the road that cuts high across the bend in this higgledy piggledy scattered pattern of streets.
Then I showed him the painting.
My dad was an artist. To be accurate my dad was everything. He was an engineer, an artist, a writer, a historian, a talker and a beatnik jazz superfan.
When he wasn’t stuck in his mindless factory job, he filled our lives with culture.
He was a Black Country gent in a council estate. An enigma.
Back to the painting. Dad suffered a form of dementia in his later years but before it slowed him completely, he had begun a painting of a street in Harlech. It was mom and dad’s favourite street. Mom had wanted this street painting for years and now he had the time.
The painting was never finished. It is however in my care and is very easily recognisable as this street, with this cottage sat in a blur near the centre, almost but not quite visible. But I knew it was there.
I was now obsessed with going to this cottage.
I wanted to go on my own.
I wanted to re-capture that atmosphere, those sounds of childhood and early adulthood, those feelings of peace, love and tranquillity that I had shared at some point with the people I loved.
This obsession simmered through the autumn and through Christmas and new year. I would keep looking to make sure it was still there waiting for me on the air BnB website.
An issue with cleaners had prevented my son from going there, somehow this added to the excitement (sad for him though) of going back and recapturing.
2 things happened.
The cost.
I wasn’t ready.
I never have driven a car, apart from a few trundles around a car park in the ‘80s.
Public transport adds an extortionate time dimension to UK travel. It’s pretty rubbish unless you need to travel in central London. I’m happy to be corrected on the London point as this is purely anecdotal, having only been to London once, on a school trip, when I was 12.
Along with this burden of time to contend with, there is cost.
I may have mentioned it before but cost to me is a biggie. Even if I had money to spare, I would still think some of the costs are disproportionately expensive.
I am also a little bit obsessed with knowing exactly what I am supposed to be doing and when.
Actually a lot obsessed. The thought of not having a clearly laid out plan terrifies me. I need to be in control, at least a little bit.
I don’t like all the hops involved in some journeys.
Changing trains is not something I want to do. I don’t want to wander around a strange train station, searching for platforms and noticeboards. What happens if I miss my connection?
What of my train is cancelled or delayed?
Airports I will come to later. It is easier, I promise.
The panic was starting to rise as I was presented with 5000000 different ways to book a train.
The cost was equally confusing.
So, not really knowing which ones were legitimate ticket booking companies, and which were just going to take my money and run, my nerve was beginning to crack.
This is when I started looking for help. Internet help, from real people.
This is where I hit a brick wall.
I would happily have sat and read about someone’s experience, TripAdvisor style, but this was where the brick wall morphed and I was confronted by an advert laden, wall of tumbleweed!
This is when I almost admitted defeat. I was determined to do it myself and surprise my family with my new independent, regenerated stabiliser limb but it all felt too much.
This was when the not-so-mended me woke up.
I couldn’t do Wales on my own.
I cried. Just a few tears, mostly for happy memories. Memories of being the most happy two people in the world, memories of becoming parents and taking our children to the happy places.
How would I cope stepping onto Barmouth station platform without small grinning faces milling in front of me?
How would I eat chips without a steamed-up car and having to sort out the squabbles in the back seat?
I wasn’t ready for the possible meltdown that would ensue if I smelled a smell, or heard a sound, or felt that mist on my hair, that would remind me too acutely of the times I treasured but wouldn’t happen again.
I had a stiff drink, dug out what all big girls need, my big girl pants, and started searching for something completely different.