There is a very specific moment during every British weekend away when you question whether leaving the house was actually a good idea.
Usually about 47 minutes after setting off. Someone needs the toilet.
Someone else is hungry despite eating immediately before leaving.
Google Maps has added 38 minutes. And the passenger seat has just said:
You should have gone the other way.
Welcome to the Great British weekend away.
THE PLAN
It normally starts on Thursday. “Should we go somewhere this weekend?” Great idea.
Within ten minutes, a normal Saturday has become a military operation.
Leave at 6am. Climb a mountain. Find a nice pub. Maybe visit the coast. Camp overnight. Home Sunday. Easy. Saturday arrives. It's 9:17am.
Nobody's eaten breakfast, the car isn't packed and apparently every waterproof in the house has disappeared.
Adventure awaits. Just not yet.
PACKING LIGHT
Instagram would have you believe a weekend away requires one tasteful backpack and a reusable water bottle.
Our car looks like we're permanently relocating. Boots. Wellies. Coats. Chairs. Cool box. Chargers. Snacks. Emergency snacks.
Emergency snacks for when somebody eats the emergency snacks.
Then there's the enormous bag containing everything the kids could possibly need.
Except, obviously, the exact thing they ask for 20 minutes later.
Eventually, you get the boot shut. Victory. “Did you pack my coat?” Of course not.
BRITISH WEATHER
Checking the weather before a British weekend away is adorable.
Your phone says sunshine. The sky says otherwise.
By lunchtime you're standing in sideways rain wondering why you've spent your entire adult life refusing to buy waterproof trousers.
Five minutes later, glorious sunshine. Coats off. Ten minutes later, rain again. This is why we dress for every season at once. Shorts. Fleece. Waterproof. Sunglasses. You might look ridiculous.
But at some point during the day, you'll be correctly dressed.
THE BIT YOU REMEMBER
The funny thing is, the best part of the weekend usually isn't the thing you planned.
It's the cafe you stopped at because someone desperately needed the toilet.
The beach you found after taking the wrong road. The sheep that refused to move. The pub you hadn't booked.
The view that wasn't on anyone's “10 Places You MUST Visit” list.
And maybe that's the point. We've become obsessed with doing places properly. You don't need to “complete” the Lake District. Nobody reaches the end credits of Yorkshire. Go somewhere. Do one thing. Have a long lunch. Change the plan. Take the wrong road. It's allowed.
SUMMER'S OVER. SO WHAT?
August ends and Britain suddenly behaves like the outdoors has closed for the year.
It hasn't. September might actually be better.
Quieter roads. Cooler walks. Changing landscapes. Pubs with fires on.
And yes, significantly more opportunities to test whether your coat is actually waterproof.
You don't need a week off. You don't need flights. You don't need an itinerary with 14 activities. Pick somewhere. Throw far too much stuff in the car. Forget something important. Get slightly lost. Find somewhere you weren't looking for.
Come home Sunday exhausted, dump everything in the hallway and say:
“We need to do that more often.” Then leave the bags there until Tuesday. Because we're British. And apparently that's how a weekend away works.
Off route. On purpose.
