Bernard O'Shea: Observe the Constitution of the Irish Family Holiday

Irish Examiner

19 hours ago

There's a particular look Irish people get when you mention a family holiday. It's a mix of hope, dread, and a kind of facial tension.
On paper, it sounds idyllic: You, your siblings, their spouses, the grandchildren, maybe a stray cousin who's 'between places' — all heading off together for a glorious week of bonding in a rented house by the sea.
But in practice? It's like being in a low-budget reality show called Survivor: Inch Beach Edition.
Let me say this upfront: I love my family. But I also love silence, wi-fi, personal space, and not being judged for watching endless hours of old Dragons Den episodes on YouTube.
The problem is that Irish family holidays have evolved in to something else entirely — a pressure cooker of good intentions, passive aggression, and 17 breakfast preferences.
And it's time we acknowledged the truth: Without formal governance, Irish family holidays descend into chaos.
This is why, dear reader, I am proposing something bold. Something brave. Something entirely unnecessary, but deeply satisfying: A family holiday constitution.
Let's examine how we arrived at this point.
IV. The Constitution of the Irish Family Holiday
(Ratified somewhere between a broken beach chair and a tray of cocktail sausages)
Article I: The Person Who Books the Accommodation Is Automatically the Taoiseach
They are not the Mammy. They are not the boss. But they are the Taoiseach for the duration.
You will respect their Google Sheets. You will not question the mattress's firmness. And you will definitely not say, 'Could we have gotten somewhere closer to the beach?'
Article II: No Single Fry Is Truly a 'Shared Fry'
If someone cooks a fry, they are not expected to also clean up, entertain children, or fetch brown sauce.
And under no circumstances should anyone say, 'Are there no mushrooms?'
That person may be legally ejected from the group.
Article III: All Discussions of 'The Budget' Must Happen Before the Holiday
There shall be no whispered accusations of overspending after the third bottle of rosé.
If someone didn't chip in properly, bring it up in April, not now, while they're slicing brie beside the fire pit.
You shall adopt the 'sure, it's only once a year' rule.
Yes, the children will need braces, but you also need another pair of Raybans.
Article IV: The Wi-Fi Password Must Be Shared Promptly and Without Attitude
The smug withholding of the wi-fi password shall be considered a hostile act.
You may not say, 'Oh, I have it, but I don't know if I should share it; it's acting up.'
You shall share it. You shall do so gladly, even with that nephew who will absolutely use it to Google 'giant tractors' all day.
Article V: Silent Judgement of Parenting Styles Is Permitted. Verbal Comments Are Not.
You may raise your eyebrows when someone lets their toddler eat a Cornetto at 10am.
But you may not say, 'Interesting technique.' That is an act of war.
The full realisation of your own parenting limitations must be fully realised before raising one's eyebrow.
Article VI: Dishwasher Tetris Is a Sacred Ritual
Only the designated dishwasher priest may perform re-stacking ceremonies.
Any interference shall result in a mandatory, three-day rotation of the tea towels.
Article VII: Day Three Is for Fighting
Everyone shall be allowed one passive-aggressive meltdown midweek. This is healthy and traditional.
After which, all parties must apologise, blame tiredness, and go for a walk they don't enjoy.
The participants shall be allowed to hold a grudge over the tiniest issue until the day they pass away formally.
Article VIII: One Person Shall Cry. That Is Normal.
It could be the toddler. It could be the gran.
It could be you sitting in the car eating a breakfast roll, while Spotify plays an unskippable ad about a weight loss meditation app. Let it happen.
Article IX: There Shall Be No Conversations About Fridges After 9pm
All rows about who left what uncovered, what's going 'whiffy,' or whether the feta is yours must be postponed until the morning.
Especially if there's drink involved.
Article X: No One Is Allowed to Say 'Sure, It's Only a Week' Unless They're Doing All the Cooking
If you say this while sitting down, holding a glass of wine, and watching someone else try to get sun cream onto a screaming child, you will be fined €50 and assigned bin duty.
If anyone consistently brings up the day you have to leave, they shall be asked to leave.
If someone tries to force the entire house to 'go to bed' on the last night of the holiday, so they don't miss the flight, they shall be ejected immediately.
V. Final Reflections From the Car Journey Home
You'd think we'd learn. You'd think, after the cold showers, the burnt sausages, the five-hour board game row about Monopoly rules, that we'd say, 'Never again.'
But no. We're Irish. We thrive in this exact kind of chaos. We complain, we cry, we rebook.
Because somewhere in between the burnt toast, the dodgy wi-fi, and the mysterious smell in the utility room, something real happens.
The children bond. The cousins laugh. Someone finds a jelly shoe from 2003. And you remember that it's not really about the house, or the rota, or even the sleep.
It's about family. The weird, wonderful, maddening, lovely family. So, yes — next year, we'll do it all again. But this time, I'm laminating the constitution.