If you’re going on a staycation to the British seaside, prepare to hate every minute of it

The roads will be crammed, car parking in popular spots will be a nightmare – and unless you’re very careful, the local wildlife will have your lunch, writes Jenny Eclair

‘Suffice to say, the drive to Cornwall took a mere eight hours’ (AFP via Getty Images)

I’ve been on what most people are having this year: a holiday in the UK. Predictably, I’ve been to Cornwall, because I own several Breton tops and therefore have the required uniform.

We travelled by car – and before anyone leaps down my throat, a train would have been out of the question. We had a fortnight booked in two self-catering apartments, both of which required bedding and towels; then there’s my bulging bag of meds and the old man’s box of pickles and chutneys. The Éclair-Powells travel heavy – very heavy (I took five coats, because... well, you never know). We also had work stuff, drawing stuff, swimming stuff, umbrellas and a thermal lance (joke).

Suffice to say, the drive there took a mere eight hours, while the drive back just over ten-and-a-half; but I can’t blame the motorway for all of this. By the time we hit south London, around 9pm on our return, there was gridlock around the Oval. Other hold-ups included roadworks, small accidents and a horrific car and caravan fire (in which no one was hurt, but a twisted and charred double vehicle skeleton was left smouldering at the side of the road, causing a two-and-a-half-hour delay on the A30).

UK holidaymakers this year are just going to have to swallow this kind of thing. The roads are going to be crammed, car parking in popular tourist spots will be a nightmare and – by the way – there’s no point looking at a weather app, because there is sod all you can do about it.

In terms of a corona vibe, despite Cornwall being a current hot spot, there was very little evidence of the pandemic – at least, not on the surface.

Obviously, out and about on the beaches and streets, everything looks completely normal – no one is masked and the British seaside holiday gets on with life as it always has: with people eating pasties, dropping ice creams and burning their shoulders.

Inside the shops and supermarkets, mask-wearing is completely in line with current regulations, and I didn’t have to roll my eyes once. No evidence of disposable mask littering, either, which made a change from SE5.

As you might expect, booking is essential for most of the big hitters, such as The Tate at St Ives. Here, numbers seem to be very restricted and my partner and I wandered around the stunningly newly hung rooms almost by ourselves. Now and again there are reminders of Covid-related casualties – staff shortages at the gallery meant that only coffees and cakes rather than lunch could be served in the café; and gossip on the prom suggested quite a few places had been hit by the track-and-trace app, with some restaurants having to shut up shop completely for a couple of weeks.

Add to that the chaos of Brexit, and apparently quite a lot of popular UK holiday destinations are suffering from a dearth of catering and cleaning staff. Weird that some folk didn’t see that coming.

Caught between a scream and a whimper, I sort of expected a lifeguard to come to my rescue

But moving on... The lack of lunch at The Tate drove us on to the beach for a picnic. I chose a beef-and-horseradish fancy sandwich from a posh takeaway, while the old man opted for an artisan sausage roll, and we settled ourselves on the golden sands of Porthmeor to tuck in.

As I drew my handcrafted bap from its paper bag, I was suddenly aware of a commotion behind my head as giant shadows began to wheel over me. Before I knew it, eight massive seagulls – each the size of a buzzard – were dive-bombing me in what seemed like a choreographed formation.

Despite my panic, I didn’t drop my sandwich – I was hungry and didn’t want it rolling in the sand. Yet regardless of my low blood sugar levels, one of the birds seized that sandwich – snatching it out of my hand with its sharp yellow beak; a beak that, had I not given up my sandwich, would have gone for my eyes.

There were birds in my hair, their massive feathered wings flapping in my ears – and caught between a scream and a whimper (and looking nothing like Tippi Hedren in The Birds), I sort of expected one of the lifeguards to come to my rescue.

Surely someone on the beach would save me? My partner was frozen in shock, his mouth a complete round “O” of surprise, his sausage roll now hidden up his sleeve. A few fellow holidaymakers looked utterly horrified, some clutched their children in case the gulls took a fancy to a juicy toddler, but if I thought it was going to make the evening news, I was very much mistaken. Most of the locals simply shrugged, having seen this kind of incident countless times before.

So, what can I say? Enjoy the British seaside – but prepare to be stuck in the car for hours on end, take change for the ferries and car parks and (whatever you do) don’t eat in front of the seagulls. I, for one, hope the horseradish is still repeating on them.