‘I haven’t been on holiday for two years…’

Once a jet setter and now the only millennial who isn’t clocking up air miles for the gram, join me for the memories

Rock pool at Gallipoli, Puglia, Italy

There was a time when I couldn’t go two months without getting on a plane out of the country. When I was younger I spent a lot of time travelling to and from wherever my dad was living and working. At the time that was mostly in the UAE so, Dubai, Oman and Bahrain. Then he moved to South-East Asia and that was where we spent our summer holidays. As I got older and able to choose my flight destinations I turned to New York and Paris. As a Londoner, these cities felt easy to navigate and I hopped on and off the moving metro in France and prayed my taxi driver didn’t turn out to be armed and dangerous in the Big Apple.

In my 20s, I was dating a guy who worked abroad and so I would meet him on off seasons wherever his boss’ superyacht happened to land. I use the word “dating” loosely. It was an incredible fling that lasted two years and of which: Je regrette rien! (Google help here) Often, he would only be able to let me know his availability at the last minute so I would frequently stop off at Pret on my way to work to pick up a muffin for my boss and casually approach her desk posing all kinds of overly friendly questions about her life and her recent Amazon packages before tentatively asking if I could “take the next few days off so I can go to Nice with The Chef” (to protect his identity I have always called him by his profession). But I was lucky, my boss got it. She knew I was going through a tough time after the death of my daughter and then being divorced by my by then ex-husband. She encouraged me to go for it and to live my life to the full. She was a true ambassador of my favourite Bible scripture: John 10:10.

(TRUE STORY: Another time, with another boss, I asked if I could take the following morning off because I was going to the Brits Awards after party and knew I would be hanging the next day. She looked at me as if I were nuts. ‘Are you joking?’ she said, but I was very, very serious about partying in those days and luckily she let me go. So there is some truth to me maybe taking the John 10:10 life a bit too far but again, je regrette rien!)

Saint Paul’s Bay, Malta

Travelling for me, as for most of us, had become an escape; from worries, every day tedium and the British weather. About four years ago I travelled to New York, North Carolina, back to New York and then to Malta within about six weeks. I was exhausted and fed up with planes, immigration and air conditioning. I decided I didn’t want to travel again for a while. A few months later I got the itch and went skiing in Verbier while covering the Freeride World Tour. It is worth bearing in mind at this point that I had never – and still haven’t – been to Scotland, a mere few hours up the road, and my only claim to Ireland had been one dismal lonely Christmas in Dublin. Like most Londoners, if I’m going “on holiday”, I’m leaving the country. I’m vaguely ashamed to say that before I moved to the Cotswolds I had barely touched down in England anywhere outside the M25.

The first year of The Pandemic, my best friend organised a trip to Puglia in Southern Italy which was beautiful. We somehow managed to book a HUGE apartment in Baroque Old Town with a roof terrace and vaulted ceilings. I could have fitted a Ferrari in my bedroom. If I had one/someone to buy me one. I had been to Italy before but back then, Lecce was pretty tourist free and we actually had to learn Italian. Un poco, but still. It was like my dad always drilled into me, if you’re going to visit someone else’s country you should respect them and learn the language they speak instead of expecting them to learn yours. A memo seemingly missed by colonialists of old. It was a great trip, even though I railed at my BFF for not pre-booking a hire care in peak season and I ended up having an argument in (my) broken Italian with a coach driver who almost drove off without us after a bathroom stop.

Luckily, we discovered that Lecce, Puglia in 2020 was probably the only place in the world where it was beneficial to be travelling as three black girls. We were hit on almost constantly by rich Italian men wanting to look after us. And yes, I considered moving there for a pretty decent amount of time. In fact, one guy pursued my friend so much that we actually thought she wasn’t going to come home. But as with any good holiday, we did, and we retain the memories.

Colarado Dessert, Coachella

Two years later and I’m conscious that was the last time I was on a plane. It seems incongruous now, to have been so landlocked, but as I focus on paying off cancer-accrued debt and saving for a home, I feel more grateful for my every day surroundings. I discovered that there is actually a pretty amazing world outside of the M25, and while I might be jealous of your exotic holiday destinations, Soho Farmhouse will do just as well for now.  

Tola x