I am not great on holidays. That is to say, I am very attached to home comforts and consequently, my ideal holiday is one that replicates the habits and mores of Weasel Hall. The strict requirement for me is sunny, preferably warm, weather. Anything else is a bonus. Some of the best times I had were when I went Interrailing or the time when me and a couple of mates went down to the South of France in a Triumph Herald convertible. That was over 30 years ago, but I remember it in detail, particularly meeting up with the glamorous French friend of a friend with whom I became quite besotted at the time, and still keep in touch with, though that has now faded to a bi-annual exchange of emails. I think, on balance, the best hols and the worst, were with the young Weasels, who have always added to the fun and made everything an adventure. It even made our camping hols bearable, especially when we had something called a Camplet, and the weather was kind to us.
It is not difficult to remember our worst holiday. We had booked a "luxury" gite in the Rhone Valley in summer. Oh how wonderful it looked in the tiny picture, but it was a nightmare. Nothing worked, after four hours the oven had failed to brown a chicken, the open fire had no source of fuel and it was cold and rainy. We tried to eat out and ended up a a terrible restaurant that served us a chicken leg on a plate of white sauce for about 15 quid. One of the Weasels got a nasty cut from the dishwasher hinge and we had to find a doctor on a Sunday. That was the highlight - the French doctor got up from his lunch, took us into his surgery and examined and treated the cut, and then waved us away with a smile and no bill. I damaged the car whilst reversing after an eight hour journey and on our return, tired and somewhat pissed off, the customs did not like the look of us and had everything out of the car. We were there for hours and had everything up to (but not including) the anal probe.