Center parcs - a love/hate relationship

Thoughts from my son’s favourite holiday spot.

“I can only drive you to your lodge if your mum pretends she can’t walk”

Says Angelos the taxi driver.

“And YOU have to tell them. They won’t believe me….”

He pauses.

“Otherwise, I drop you in carpark. They started charging for permits but I don’t get many jobs here so I refuse to buy one”

He’s a pleasant enough fella, early sixties, who combines the accent of Harry Enfield’s Stavros with the boastfulness of Loadsamoney.

In a thirty minute journey he’s already bragged revealed that he’s bought each of his kids a house “so they don’t move away with the grandchildren” and now spends £30 a week on bird seed since he ditched cigs. Angelos also likes to help his sister out with the food shop because that’s just the type of guy he is. How do I know? Because he’s told us several times ‘that’s just the type of guy I am’.

I am pleased my mother is in the front seat with him, rather than me. She appreciates a natter with a cabbie and it means I can gaze vacantly into fields and rivers. They discuss house prices, his homeland Cyprus ‘ooh - my brother has a villa there’ and the importance of having a good work ethic.

Angelos drives a Tesla. A word I can’t dissociate from OMD’s ‘Tesla girls’. ‘

No! No! No!

A Tesla that reeks of air freshner; a non descript fruity smell I name ‘Hell’s Peach’.

A call comes through on the speaker phone from a woman who wants to be picked up at ‘Pets at home’

“Do you have a dog with you?”

“Um…no…..just his food”

After ending the call, Angelos turns to us and explains ‘some people don’t like dogs in cars so we send a different vehicle’. All I can think is how I’d happily pay an extra £2 for him to lose the air freshner because it makes me feel so bloody queasy.

Finally, we arrive at the security gate.

I’m psyched up, ready to convince some Vinegar Tits my mum can barely walk, only to get a ‘take it easy’ Cadbury’s Caramel bunny who grins like a stoner, ushering us through and calling me ‘darlin’. And that’s it, we’re in.

The gates of Eden.

Or summat.

Let the holiday commence.

I say ‘holiday’, I mean ‘break’. Cause that’s what everyone does these days, isn’t it?  ‘Short breaks’. The same name my local council gives to respite for carers. I know, because I applied once and jumped through all kind of hoops for two hours a week. So much palaver - form filling and interviews,  that afterwards I did indeed, feel I needed a ‘short break’. 

I miss the British tradition of ‘fortnights’, instead of these bitty getaways. It’s such a quaint word reminiscent of a bygone era. When I was a girl, we always went away for a fortnight and had a huge suitcase that would fit an elephant inside. These days, say ‘Fortnight’ and the kids only know ‘Fortnite’, the game……

Ah….Center Parcs……like outside, but easier.  Is that their tagline? No? Well it should be.

And why ‘parc’?

Why the quirky Euro spelling? Are we pretending Nottingham is the Cote D’Azur? Really?

Hm….

It’s nature for the semi committed, attracting the type of people who like the idea of woodland without having to deal with its less fun aspects - like getting lost, standing in shit or bumping into doggers.

So why am I here?

’Cause famlee.

Say it in your head enough times like Arthur Fowler pre Christine Hewitt, and you’ll start to believe it.

My son and mum love it and it’s the right thing to do. I asked my son where he wanted to go on holiday and this is where he chose. An old familiar favourite.

The maid is just finishing up as we approach our accommodation. Same number lodge as usual (the joys of autism….) I quickly scan the joint to make sure everything is as it should be.

“Excuse me, we don’t seem to have been left any shower gel or shampoo”

I say.

“Oh…all that went after lockdown.”

She explains.

Funny the little things that make a holiday, isn’t it? And that pearly gloop that smelled like cedar or pine or whatever, was one of mine. Already I feel short changed.

“You don’t get milk anymore either!”

She adds.

I hazard a guess at why this may be. I suppose milk has almost as many identities as gender these days, hasn’t it? Who’s to know who’s full fat, skimmed or soy? Best not to bother than to rattle the cage of a lactose intolerant Melvyn or unsettle Oat Milk Annie.

But these minor disappointments are nothing compared to the new notice that tells us NOT to feed the wildlife! This, is big news!

Last time we came here in 2019, feeding was actively encouraged! You could buy bags of bird seed at their ‘Parc Market’. Not anymore!

They have done a complete u-turn and are now playing both the ‘green’ and ‘safety’ card. Personally, I think they are just shitting themselves over ‘bird flu’……

I cast my eyes over the poor little critters outside. The growing army of Bambi’s mates with pleading Oliver Twist eyes.

Has anyone told them? I wonder.

That they are victims of human fad, that for many years Center Parcs capitalised on their petting zoo appeal, only now for this to now be deemed unfashionable. How must it feel to know the glory days of grain on tap have been replaced by a less fun slug hunt!

“Would you live here if you could afford to?”

Son says as he gambols around the lodge, merry as a Spring lamb, his arse bouncing off sofa cushions that have more perk than a teenager’s tits. I see nostalgia in his eyes as he recounts the 3 or 4 times we’ve been here previously.

“No”

I say truthfully.

“But we will have a nice time!”

I add in my best Julie Andrew’s voice. And I mean it. As the day winds down, I begin to embrace the show-home swankiness that is ours til Friday. I come over all tidy, feeling a strange urge to buff spoons and fold the toilet paper into points.

Aww…..

******

Why did I ever start the ball rolling with this one? I ask myself, early hours.

Why did I ever start coming here in the first place?

Convenience.

As a mum of a child with additional needs with no car, when he was little, I wanted that ‘one stop shop’. Somewhere I could both entertain and feed him without having to think too hard. A place he wouldn’t get bored in, yet wasn’t too loud and over stimulating for his sensory requirements.

At first glance, ‘convenience’ translates as laziness - not being arsed, wanting a quick fix, but for me, when I dig deeper, I know this convenience was rooted in fear and this is why it sells so well. Fear of messing up, getting it wrong. For me, it was a fear of my son having a shit holiday.

We’ve been sold ideas of ‘quality time’.

What if our holidays lack ‘quality’? Are not worthy enough to be called holidays?  Do not live up to what we feel our kids deserve?

I pictured myself doing my nut in a caravan in the middle of nowhere somewhere, miles from a corner shop and doubted myself. My ability to make it good.

“It takes a village to raise a child”, apparently.

I never had one.

But for five days,  I could have one.

And I chose ‘Sherwood Forest’.

*******

I wake to find my mother having an argument with a squirrel by the sliding doors.

“Don’t think you’re coming in here!”

She says menacingly.

“Look at him! Thinks he can come in!”

“Mum….why are you rowing with a squirrel? Just shut the door.”

She mulls this over before doing so.

My mum, bless her heart, never ceases to be impressed by squirrels.

“Look! That one’s got his legs out behind him! I’ve never seen one lie like that before!”

I swear it’s like Town Mouse Country Mouse sometimes. You’d think she was an evacuee on her first trip out of The Big Smoke.

“Look how green that duck’s head is!”

“Mum it’s just a mallard….”

And so it goes on. I find myself correcting her, pedantically every time she calls a goose ‘a duck’ then feeling like a bitch for doing it.

I smile, hoping if I reach 75, I will find such delight in these simple things.

*****

I find the food dire. Grim. The sort of chain pulp that costs an arm and a leg but has no redeeming personality. The ‘South American’ restaurant is as authentic as a plastic cactus. Bland and beige. It is served, disturbingly, by one of those robot servers. The kids love it, find it a novelty and follow them around like puppies.

“Ooh! You’re touching my ears!”

It says as a toddler interacts with it, the way once maybe her parent would have interacted with her.

“You haven’t got ears!”

I want to yell. To ‘call out’ R2D2.

“Well I never thought I’d see the day a robot served my food.”

Says my mum.

“Why do they usually give them female voices?”

Asks my son.

To blur the lines, I think. So we associate cold mechanical objects with motherly warmth. To dick with your head.

No, now is not the time to give the speech about the voice being the Hindley to tech’s Brady.

“Because they know children respond better to female voices.”

I say, sounding rational. The ‘transhuman agenda’ talk can wait…….

******

Next morning it’s off to the ‘Sub Tropical Paradise’

“Well…….you get all shapes and sizes here!”

Mum announces loudly, as she surveys the poolside bods. Good, I think. That’s one of the things I like about the place. I’m sure that on the photos that make social media, bellies will be sucked in and numerous filters applied, but I do enjoy seeing real humans.  Bodies that sag, wobble and move…..Milky skin, mottled corn beef legs, hairy chests, faces without make up……. In an insta perfect world, I want my son to know what ordinary people look like. It gives me hope for the future.

Son and I take water slide after water slide. Our love of them is something we have in common. These are moments of true bonding. I adore seeing his face light and hearing his joyful squeals. I like climbing into rafts with him as we brace ourselves for dark tunnels and sharp drops. I am pleased his swimming has improved to the point he is confident enough to go on all of the chutes and rapids alone too. The splashing of water is such a great reminder we are alive.

And so are shared smiles.

*****

People-watching is a bitter sweet experience. It brings out the judgemental side of me. A military type instructs his son to stand like a statue in the queue as his daughter (clearly daddy’s favourite) plays up and teases him, unchallenged.

I see another child turned away from a ride due to the height restrictions after standing in line with his family for 20 minutes. I feel mad - both for the entitlement they thought they had to bypass the requirement, and not considering his feelings at being turned away. The look on his little face as he is told ‘No’!

Just why did they set him up for that?

At one point, I am approaching a rapid when I spot a toddler stranded, clinging to a fake rock like a rhesus monkey.

“I want my mummy!”

He is screaming.  It’s a haunting scene, his huge frightened eyes are breaking saucers on his pale face. I have a second to think what to do as I pass him. It would seem weird to grab him, take him with me on the even scarier rapids to come, but what if he slips? I yell to a life guard to go get him.

A few minutes later I check back if he is okay. Thankfully he is.

“We tell the parents not to leave them by themselves but sadly they do.”

How could a parent risk that dear little boy to that fate? I wonder. I find my instincts taking over, laden with fury before instructing myself to be more compassionate, eyes can’t be everywhere, can they?

That’s enough people-watching for me. Back to the wildlife. They seem somewhat better at rearing their young

*****

I probably sound like a right grumbly old goat but actually, there are many things I enjoy about the Center parcs. Riding my bike is one of them. I’m ‘supposed to’ wear a helmet.

I don’t.

“So you’re not listening to Gordon Ramsay, then?”

Mum pipes up as I’m about to set off.

“He was black and blue you know….”

“No, I’m not.”

Not because he’s an overrated mouthy wanker, but because I prize the feeling of the breeze whipping through my hair.

There’s always a trade off and for me, that particular sensual pleasure is not a bargaining chip.

Cycling the grounds, I can’t help notice the maintenance team pruning and tweaking everywhere. It seems they are forever clipping something back to showcase something else. I am reminded of an advert I once saw for a trimmer called a ‘manscaper’.

“That’s what they do these days, Julie…….Lads. My daughters have told me that’s what their boyfriends do!”

My friend Naomi explained.

“Supposed to help define it……set it off a bit….”

“Oh”

The modern world, eh?

*****

I’d hoped son would complete the high ropes and zip wire with me. Alas not. He decides after looking at it, it’s a bit much for him, and that’s fair enough. I’ve no desire to be ‘pushy mum’ so do it alone and love it. Every wobbly wooden slat and twisty staircase.

I adore being high in the tree tops, balancing, climbing, zooming….. The grand finale of the zip wire across the lake is a treat. Afterwards we go on a boat and watch moorhens in the reeds. It’s a wonderful day.

******

“Glacé cherries. Yeah I could eat them…..it’s the kind they put in Black Forest gateaux I can’t stomach. Oh, they still get those in some of the care homes we go to, you know. Pineapple upside down cake I like, jam rolypoly and spotted dick. You know, the proper old puddings. Suet puddings.”

A lady with a south east accent is saying as a few of us stare at a domed ceiling with a projection of clouds floating across it.

It’s a strange old place, this ‘spa’. I’m not here for a treatment (I’m weird about randoms touching me). This, is supposed to be a ‘spa session’.

It’s something I seldom do and I admit, I find the whole set up rather odd. There is a pool in the middle and a series of rooms around it. The rooms are saunas, steam rooms and dark spaces with big cushions in them. I find myself feeling a bit ADHD, checking out every door like an excitable kid with an advent calendar.

Try as I might, I just can’t relax. A voice inside me just keeps piping up But Julie, you can’t snuggle down with a faux fur throw with a shed load of strangers! It’s not right!

But people are doing this. And they seem to be enjoying it too. Maybe I’m the oddity. It’s in these moments I feel utterly detached from the human race. An alien outsider.

I do enjoy the ‘rainforest shower’ though. The satisfying smack of a shelf of water hitting my shoulders, the scent of mandarin rising in the heat…..For thirty seconds, until I have to press the silver button again, I close my eyes and imagine myself underneath a tropical waterfall.

The last place I visit is the ‘Scandanavian Snug’. A room with wooden benches that appears to be furnished with the hides of giant toy badgers.

As a backing track of something that sounds like one of my New Age CDs from the early 90s amps up, I feel like I’m in a bad play. It’s time to go.

Spa, you’ve been interesting.

****

In what seems like no time, Friday has arrived. We pack up ready to depart.

In terms of spending time with the family, it’s gone as well as can be expected, ticked the right boxes.

Center parcs, you are a place I love to hate.

I despise all you stand for - cashless, soulless and sanitised.

But…….my son loves you.

That’s why we came here.

And like an attractive but slightly vacuous friend, I admit I like you a little bit too.

And that’s why, despite my better instincts, we’ll probably return.