If there is a word to describe our break away, it would be blue. Blue sky, blue ocean, blue beaches….every shade of blue you can imagine….from turquoise to navy.

There is definitely something to be said about the beaches along the Eyre Peninsula. There is also something to be said about their sand dunes too. I had mainly swear words to say and prayers of a quick death as I dug deep to haul my ample self over them.

Now we are experiencing a different kind of blue….the “Holiday Blues”.

It’s a real thing. I saw it with my own eyes as I farewelled our friends from our coastal oasis as they headed back to the drudgery of responsibility and life in the “real world”.

Now it’s our turn.

I’m not a fan of this. I am quite attune to the holiday vibe.

The whole concept of caravan and camping still boggles me a bit though. I don’t know why I like it because essentially we pick up our family, scrunch them into the car to drive 6 hours while they moan about having sore bums. We plonk them down to live in a space no larger than an average lounge room, tell them all to HAVE FUN AND LOVE EACH OTHER BECAUSE WE ARE ON HOLIDAYS AND “MAKING MEMORIES”, GODDAMMIT.

Added to this is that we have neighbours in a caravan park and “parenting quietly”, without a garnish of word parsley is preferable.

Sometimes a tough ask.

It’s also a lot of effort to set up a teeny tiny house on wheels. There is still cooking and washing to do, with the added bonus of having to walk the trail to the ablution block to share the ritual of sitting on a toot next to complete strangers while listening to each other take a poo.

Ah…. the serenity.

Despite this, we, and many others love to getaway in a caravan.

Everyone has settled into their “caravan set up jobs” too. I’m plumbing/electrical, tables and chairs. Trent is anything to do with spatial awareness, knots/ropes, tent construction and lifting heavy shit. The kids become the apprentices and like a well oiled machine we are sitting in a deck chair before we know it.

However this doesn’t happen before the most important job is done.

Backing. In. The. Caravan.

Trent is the backer.

I am the finger pointer and yeller of “whoa”.

I don’t like this job. I don’t like it at all.

Usually Trent and I are on the same page when it comes to lots of things.

Hand signals is NOT one of them.

I secretly love watching couples “help” each other back into caravan blocks. I’m certain there are divorce proceedings happening right now which states “irreconcilable differences mainly due to backing caravans and erecting annexes”.

These tasks are not for the faint hearted or the shakey marriage. These tasks can make you question what you ever saw in your partner in the first place.

Luckily for this trip our friends were already there so I made myself scarce and magically the men just made the van backing happen with hardly a word spoken. There must be a secret man code of hand signals that I know nothing about.

So now that we are home, the reality of life has bestowed itself upon our sad hearts and given us a case of the holiday blues.

We’ve picked up the list of all the things we stacked into the “stuff it, we’ll do it when we get back” file. The mental load is repacking itself into the recesses of our brains and life will ramp back up to “as per usual” before we know it.

But I guess this is what makes us want more. This is the magic of the holiday getaway. We press pause on the day to day drudgery and give ourselves permission to relax and do things we wouldn’t normally do. If our whole life was like this, what would we have to look forward to?

Happy Holidays to you all, and may the Blues be quick and painless.

For those of you who don’t get an opportunity to go on a holiday at all…..even to a caravan park to poo with strangers, I’m sorry. I hope you can sneak in some moments of holiday-ness and at least find some time to read a book in the sun or take an afternoon nap. On the plus side, day drinking isn’t frowned upon either when on holiday, so pour a gin with your cornflakes and call it a trip 👍🏻

Until next time.

M