Holidays used to be about fun in the sun and cocktails by the pool – now they feel like hard work

Instead of the stress and hassle of travelling during the pandemic, we’re spending that money on opening a pop-up art gallery, says Jenny Eclair

Holidaymakers in Padstow, Cornwall (Getty)

This year, instead of going on holiday, we are opening a pop-up art gallery. When I say “we”, I really mean my partner, who has been dealing in 20th-century prints online and at specialist art fairs for the past few years.

It’s not that we’re going without a holiday at all. Like most of London’s ghastly middle class, we managed a few days in Cornwall last month, but bits of the holiday felt like hard work. As my hairdresser said the other day when describing her recent family trip to a holiday camp, “I kept having to remember I was having fun.”

This is what Covid-19 has done to holidays, which are meant to be endless days of sunshine and carefree lolling, combined with loads of bar snacks and pina coladas.

Not any more. If you’re holidaying in the UK, you’ve always got one eye on your weather app, watching those clouds roll in. And if you go abroad, you’re constantly checking Twitter to see if the quarantine status of your destination has changed, bags and credit card at the ready should you need to leave earlier than intended.

A friend of mine who retired back to her home country of Portugal in January recently visited the UK with her husband to see their only daughter. They knew they would need to quarantine on arrival for two weeks, and in order to minimise any chance of infection (her husband suffered a heart attack last year), they drove, and slept for two nights in the car rather than risk staying in a hotel.

On reaching England, they were not allowed to stay with their daughter. In line with regulations, they rented a self-catering flat for a fortnight at an extra cost of £1,500, during which time regular checks were made as to their whereabouts. “We can visit any time we like,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

They did exactly what they were told, quarantined for two weeks, then spent the last week of their holiday seeing family and visiting friends. They flew back home last Saturday, roughly 24 hours after Portugal was taken off the quarantine list – imagine the frustration of dealing with that piece of news?

Of course, Portugal has now been replaced as a high-risk zone by other countries, including Croatia and Austria, and once again we’ve seen the usual whacky races to get back to Blighty before the 4am quarantine cut-off.

Most people I know have aborted foreign holiday plans, either by choice or because quarantine measures would interfere too much with work and school commitments, and they are now scrabbling around for “nice” UK holidays homes, preferably “near a lovely beach”. Ha!

Last week, one of my mates texted to say that everything “nice” in the UK had already been snapped up and the only available rentals she could find were in Preston or Leicester.

There is nothing wrong with a holiday in the UK. Incidentally, my sister and I nipped up to see our mum last week and enjoyed two days on the northwest coast in freakish sunshine. “It wasn’t like this when we were growing up,” we muttered, weaving our way through holidaymakers and eating scampi in an outdoor beach cafe. In fact, in some respects it was a smashing little holiday, even though there was no pool and I’m not sure I’d like to spend more than two nights sharing a twin bedroom with my 63-year-old sister.

I’m hoping to have more short breaks in the UK in the months to come – high up on my agenda is a trip to Wakefield to see the Barbara Hepworth museum and the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. With any luck, once the kids are finally back at school, we should have more choice of “nice” accommodation.

For those who have found a low-risk country to visit and the confidence to fly, I have to admit that I’m slightly jealous, but considering I’m yet to get on a London bus, I think it’ll be a while before I find myself at a boarding gate.

In the meantime, we’re spending the money we might have spent going abroad on hiring a small gallery space locally. My partner usually has a stand at an art and design fair held several times a year called Midcentury Modern, but with these cancelled until further notice, he’s having a bash at holding a small, socially distanced exhibition of prints and paintings complete with lashings of hand sanitiser.

My job, of course, is to hover outside on the pavement, luring in the good people of East Dulwich. I’ve even got leaflets, which reminds me of the good old days in Edinburgh when I’d spend hours flyering my own show.

Nothing really changes, until it suddenly does. Back then, the intention would be to cram as many people into a small space as humanly possible. Now, it’s a maximum of six at a time and woe betide anyone (unless they’re medically exempt) who tries to come in without a mask.