Julie Jay: I'd choose Bundoran over Benidorm, even on days when rain is biblical

Irish Examiner

a day ago

We are in Bundoran with extended family for the week. As we landed in Donegal, we listened to the radio, which informed us that there had been record temperatures in Spain. At least, I think that's what they were saying; it was so hard to hear over the torrential downpour that made driving conditions fairly dicey.
One positive that came from lockdown (and, God knows, there were very few) is that we all fell in love with staycationing, and I can't see myself heading abroad with the children again anytime soon.
As long-term readers of this column will know, we did brave 'the continent' for a holiday when I was pregnant with Number Two. I spent the week running around chasing after Number One as if I were in a Benny Hill film, and with gestational diabetes in full swing, the all-inclusive hotel buffet felt like a sick joke.
As it happens, we're having a great time in Bundoran, so much so that I might never need a passport for a holiday again. We have got two days without any rain at all, which is basically the Irish equivalent of a heatwave, and Donegal might well have given Death Valley, Nevada, a run for its money as the hottest place on Earth if it weren't for the last two days of Biblical rain.
It was so wet at one point that I had to purchase a waterproof Peppa Pig poncho to wear as extra protection, as my first raincoat proved insufficient to stave off a drenched knickers. That said, nothing says 'Irish holiday' like a soggy bum.
The 1980s and 1990s were officially back as we tinkered with buckets and spades, went to the amusements, and even played the cardgame Snap, which kept family members entertained for all of three minutes, despite my attempts to keep the fun going (I can never accept the party is over — it's a problem). There is something endlessly comforting in regressing to a lifestyle similar to an Enid Blyton novel, knowing that nobody is being turfed off to boarding school against their will at the end of the summer holidays.
Of course, it wasn't all slabs of cherry cake and jolly hockey sticks. There were terrible directions from my husband, who is riding shotgun during the holiday, and plenty of tears when Mammy tried to enforce some semblance of a bedtime routine on the first evening in Donegal. In my defence, Daddy did have an early morning the next day, so my motivations were pure.
The house we were staying in was perfect for the five children and their adults; it was very high spec, with ceilings that my 6ft-plus husband couldn't even touch, making him a very happy camper. (At home, his skull is always brushing a lampshade, as we live in a very small house, or, as a real estate agent might describe it, 'quaint').
Speaking of happy campers, Number One is sleeping on an air mattress, and I managed to convince him that this technically constituted 'camping'. I'm hoping this might satisfy his desire to camp outside, which is the stuff of my nightmares, having once pitched a tent at Electric Picnic and woken up with somebody urinating outside, inches from my head.
After a few days on the north-west coast, I can categorically say I would choose Bundoran over Benidorm, if only because my threats to 'sit into the car and drive home if you don't stop' are slightly more believable given that we actually have a car as a visual reminder that Mammy isn't messing around.
I'm sure we will one day venture abroad for a holiday again. When we do, there are so many things I will do differently: I will pay extra for a normal departure time, check the airport we are flying out of before booking, and not even dream of heading anywhere again without strapping a package of Barry's teabags to my husband's person or sewing them into the lining of our suitcase.
The major plus of going abroad is obviously the weather, but given that we are a family of snowmen, I don't think we can expect to go much more than a slightly pinker shade of blue in sunny conditions.
The closest we came to a family tan this week was when Number One discovered my bronzer on the third day of the holiday. Despite a few scrubs, he is still pretty shimmery, which on the plus side makes him pretty easy to locate in the Bundoran arcade, where he is the only child who glistens by the slot machines.
The days have been pretty idyllic, bar anytime our toddler is awake and indoors (the contents of every cabinet are a potential trip to Letterkenny University Hospital because they are packed with choking hazards galore. The toddler phase in non-babyproofed Airbnb kitchens is not for the faint of heart).
Yesterday, we made it to the beach, and, at the end of the day, wrapped in a shark towel and eating pizza, flanked by his two older cousins, Number One whispered to me that this was 'The best day ever'. He then proceeded to make a break for the car park, as he is a perpetual flight risk, even on his own home turf.
It's another reason I would choose Bundoran over Benidorm every time: Sideways rain beats a 46-degree heatwave any day of the week. If for no other reason, running in the rain always looks far more dramatic, especially when wearing a Peppa Pig poncho.