We needed a holiday. Isabelle was three years in the making. During that time, drinking was banned, early nights were exhausting, and we were staring into the egg-harvesting abyss we hoped would lead to sleepless nights, the end of hobbies and many arguments.
Fast forward almost two years. Isabelle is approaching her second birthday. Drinking is limited, early nights are a luxury, and although we were fortunate enough to side-step the pricey pit of procreation, we now have an actual living thing to look after. It quickly dawned on me that feeding it leftovers and taking it out for two walks a day wasn’t the whole caboodle.
The thought of a break bombarded my brain daily. I’m talking every twenty minutes. It doesn’t help when your identical twin brother, childless, keeps clearing off on holiday, and Facebook’s rubbish face recognition software updates me with his whereabouts because it thinks I’ve been tagged in yet another sun-soaked photograph.
The trouble is, it was hard enough to get in gear for a simple trip into town, let alone a dangerous, potentially painful, trek to another country. You can’t just book a last-minute holiday and hope for the best. I knew that my usual break – relaxing by a pool, catching up on a few books and knocking back all-inclusive cocktails – was out of the question. Nevertheless, the craving for a holiday plagued my fatigued thoughts as Baby Shark does now.
There’s just so much to think about. Searching the top twenty hotels in your chosen destination on TripAdvisor, realising you can’t afford any of them and settling for a Tui package because you’ve spent longer looking for a deal than the time you'll spend enjoying it doesn’t work anymore.
Firstly, unless you want to go to bed at eight and hide underneath the duvet with your tablet so as not to wake the child, you’ll need a separate bedroom. Before that, you’ll probably prefer a bath to clean the sand and holiday grime off her. Noisy hotels with thin walls and even thinner doors can mean an early wake-up call – because 5 am isn’t early enough – and she’s too young for kids’ club.
What if it rains? Is the room child-proofed? What about breakfast? Will you be paying over the odds when all your child wants is a bowl of cereal or a bit of toast? Will the room be able to fit a travel cot? What about a pram or buggy? Then there’s eating out, a lack of space, locks on doors and windows, the temperature in your room – it goes on and on and on. Sharing a hotel room with a toddler helps you understand why many species eat their young rather than holiday with them.
Did I mention the dog? We had a canine less sociable than Maxime Qavtaradze, a monk who chose to live a life of virtual solitude on top of a pillar above his Georgian monastery. He was there for decades. He’d become a monk after a stretch in prison and not, as I assumed because he had raised a child. The dog always went on her little holiday, kennels, to protect the world from her wrath, so that’s £150 spent before we’ve even attempted to load the car.
As any parent knows, money is a constant worry, but holidaying in the UK soon adds up, which is why all-inclusive trips abroad are so recklessly tempting. Then someone introduced us to the beautiful world of serviced apartments. A serviced apartment provides more space, freedom and privacy than any hotel room I’ve stayed in. They’re cost-effective to boot. With savings of up to 30% compared to hotels, serviced apartments include a fully-fitted kitchen, digital TV, Wi-Fi and weekly housekeeping.
The kitchen is essential. Yes, you’re on holiday, so the thought of having to cook every evening may put a few people off, yet having a kitchen at your disposal means you’re not struggling to find space to put the steriliser, perfect prep machine, bowls, bottles, cutlery, muslins, bibs etc. Milk goes in the fridge, not the minibar. If your child is on solids, you can store, prepare and serve them proper food. There’s a microwave, oven, dishwasher, even a washer/dryer – that’s one suitcase less already.
Leading-edge flat-screen TVs, USB charging sockets, separate bedrooms and parking, subject to a small, additional charge, feels luxurious when you’re accustomed to holidaying in something the size of a cell. You can watch Netflix without subtitles; there’s no need to tiptoe to the fridge for another well-deserved beer, and, most importantly, you can stick to that routine you’ve carefully crafted over the last nineteen months.
The sheer size of each apartment means the little one can run and play without trashing the joint, and you won’t be stepping on Duplo bricks as you creep to the can in the dead of night. Serviced apartments are often located close to transport links and amenities, so days out don’t have to involve loading the car up or hiring one. And if you run out of milk, or, dare I say it, cheese, you won’t be needing to hunt down a local supermarket or spend an hour googling translations for salt content.
All in all, booking a serviced apartment was one of the best decisions we’ve ever made. The break we had ached for wasn’t a disappointment, allowing us to refuel, recharge and re-introduce ourselves to the wondrous world of holidays. I no longer had to log on to Facebook to escape the trials and tribulations of everyday existence, living my life through my twin brother's selfies.
On the first evening of our return, I uploaded my first photo album in three years. It received 32 likes. Thank you, serviced apartment. I’m back.
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