I can’t stand holidays – I’m baffled by people who love travelling

I hate holidays and I never want to go on one again.

I have no idea why other British people like them so much. It seems that the average Brit can’t wait to pay through the nose to get stressed in an airport, huddle in a cramped metal can and hurtle through the sky for hours, before arriving at what’s usually a bog-standard hotel with terrible decor. 

Then, some will sizzle on a deckchair before turning lobster red and increase their risk of skin cancer. 

To me, this all sounds like being trapped in a horror movie. It’s why, aged 44, I’m unlikely to go on holiday abroad again (unless I have a really unturndownable work offer).

Looking back, perhaps I’m still scarred by my French exchange trip at school. I was 13, and staying with a family who didn’t speak any English.

My period started and I had no idea how to communicate this, so I spent a week with wadded-up toilet paper in my pants. 

I hated every single second of that trip, and I haven’t enjoyed a holiday in the 30 years since.

Even when I was first commissioned to write travel pieces for the Sunday Times, which is every journalist’s dream, I initially said no! 

In hindsight, travel journalism is not the best career for someone as anxious as me who refuses to even get in a lift. It’s an even poorer decision when you consider that I am terrified of flying.

To this day I don’t understand why tourists would want to put themselves through the torture of air travel.

Sure, commercial planes virtually never crash, but that hasn’t sunk into my brain just yet. In fact, the last time I got on a plane was when I decided to get married in America.

I’ll spare you all the details but essentially, at the age of almost 37, I’d decided a quickie wedding in Vegas seemed my best chance of ever getting hitched.

However, from the moment I stepped onto the plane I regretted my decision to elope.

Not only was I leaving my beloved five-year-old daughter behind, I was convinced the aircraft would crash and I would plummet to my death.

Despite making it there and back safely, I haven’t taken a single flight in the seven years since.

But even if you put the sheer lunacy of hurling through the air to one side, as far as I can see, there’s not a single thing that is appealing about air travel.

Think about it, even before you get on the flight, you have to worry about getting to the airport on time and fret about whether your luggage is over the limit.

You then have the boredom of hanging around the soulless Duty Free area, only to discover your flight’s delayed or cancelled.

And if you finally arrive at your destination, hours later, you have the dubious pleasure of being fleeced by a taxi driver.

This time last year, my then-boyfriend took me on holiday to Paris via Eurostar as a birthday present, the perfect gift for a woman who detests holidays. He partly paid for our trip with vouchers and points, which is how we ended up in a miserable hotel room with a broken aircon unit in the height of summer.

He opened the windows onto the main road to let the air in, so I couldn’t sleep because of all the traffic noise. I broke up with him two days after we returned (not solely for that reason, but it didn’t help his case).

It also baffles me how much people look forward to being in a strange place without all their home comforts, too.

As a vegan, I’d find it very difficult to procure an oat milk latte or find a vegan meal on a menu anywhere else in Europe.

I guess I could be rustled up some spaghetti with olive oil and tomato sauce, but that’s only if my poor grasp of foreign languages didn’t let me down and I didn’t mistakenly wind up with a rare steak.

And sure, the weather abroad might be better than in Britain, but most people holiday in the summer, when the weather here is occasionally nice. 

This year alone, it’s been dangerously hot abroad, with temperatures in Greece, Cyprus and Turkey soaring into the high 30s and even 40s. Most Brits moan about it here when it’s 26 degrees, so how they cope with it being up to 20 degrees hotter abroad, I have no idea.

Yet, whenever I tell people of my hatred for holidays, they are almost always baffled.

I understand that to the average Brit it’s a chance to escape their stressful working life. But I’m lucky enough to love my job as a writer – it never feels like work to me. 

If I need to de-stress though, I go for a massage. I don’t leave the country.

Ironically, my family comes from Iran, India, Africa and America, so I hold two passports – British and American – but I might as well hold zero for the amount I use them. 

I have no desire to return Stateside. Especially with the orange monster plotting a return to the presidency, gun crime, political violence, extortionate healthcare and women’s reproductive rights being restricted.

The only thing I have considered is visiting Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania – it’s where my mum grew up – to explore my heritage. But with the Foreign Office warning people not to travel to parts of East Africa unless it’s absolutely essential as terror groups Islamic State and Al-Shabaab are likely to carry out attacks there, it’s not likely to happen any time soon. 

So instead, I’ll be staying in the UK, in my beautiful house in East London which I share with two wonderful lodgers and a monitored alarm system.

If I want to escape, I’ll go into the West End for some shopping, art and culture – it’s not as though I don’t live in the best city in the world. 

And maybe, just maybe, I just have no sense of adventure. But not being able to safely access the stuff you want and need this summer sounds like hell – not an exciting experience. 

Holidays are an absolute nightmare. I’m looking forward to staying at home. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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