I had picked the only week this year when Ireland was enjoying good sunshine to take a package holiday

I knew this was going to be a busy week. Yesterday evening I was in Hodges Figgis bookshop for a conversation with Madeleine Keane to mark the launch of my new book. And now I’m off to Cork for another event at the Triskel Arts Centre on Thursday evening, and to Nenagh on Friday night for more of the same. Such manic activity is almost too much for me, in contrast to my quiet life in the hills above Lough Allen watching the cats scratching themselves.
As a neighbour used to say years ago when he was milking his goats, “It’s all go.” But I suppose it’s important to promote a new book so I decided to take a package holiday in order to relax before the busy week. A sun holiday at the pool on an all-inclusive package seemed like a great idea. And the flight was from Belfast airport, which is calm and relaxing compared with the frenetic anxiety that permeates Dublin.
So off I went, as jolly as Mr Bean, only to discover that by the time I reached the departure lounge, the flight had been delayed 15 minutes. And every 15 minutes thereafter another text said the flight was delayed another 15 minutes. I finally arrived at my hotel in the Algarve in the middle of the night.
At reception, the night porter put an armband on my wrist not unlike those used in hospitals to ensure that surgeons know who they are operating on. And the following morning the sun was splitting stones, not in the Algarve but in Donegal.
In the Algarve it was cloudy. I sulked on my balcony, thinking of all the surfers and swimmers that might be clogging the sandy beaches of Donegal as I gazed down at white, boney bodies stretched on sunbeds around the pool hoping for the clouds to disperse. I had picked the only week in the year when Ireland was enjoying good sunshine.
But the real problem with package holidays is that everyone is vulnerable because they are so far from home. For example, I overheard an unfortunate American lady discussing her underwear at the reception desk.
[ Michael Harding: We had just finished the salmon when the row broke out. All had gone well until thenOpens in new window ]
“I need some things laundered,” she whispered. “Can you get someone to collect them?”
The receptionist stared at her without speaking.
“They need to be washed,” the American added. She was clearly stressed and embarrassed.
“There is a utility room at the top of the building” the receptionist replied.
“It’s my underwear,” the lady confessed. “I get a rash from detergents. They get all sprayed with chemicals in those machines.”
I was going to say – “What about a bit of soap and water in the bathtub?” but I kept my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry madam,” the receptionist concluded, “but the machines are there for the guests. We have no other service.”
“Well I didn’t know that when I booked this hotel,” the lady fumed as loud as a foghorn.
The receptionist gazed at her with the compassion of a medieval saint listening to the screaming of demons, although she had no intention of doing anything about it.
“I am sorry madam,” she said, “but this is a hot country”, and the lady wheeled on her heel with indignation and disappeared towards the lift.
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I saw her again in the dining area that evening, with her husband, an enormous warrior in a red T-shirt and blue shorts sitting at a table beside me. His thighs were as firm as pillars of marble and close enough to put me off my piri-piri chicken. The last time I had seen such masculinity up close was in Florida where everyone went around in beachwear even at breakfast.
I felt sympathy for both of them and maybe that’s why I joined them for a Jack Daniels later. The barman poured uncivilised amounts of whiskey into my glass every time we freshened our drinks and there is no point in describing my misery in the bathroom later that night or the merciless headache I endured the following day as I tried to pass a few hours recuperating on a sun bed while Radio na Gaeltachta blathered on about another “lá galánta” in Donegal.
By Wednesday it all got too much for me, so I changed my flight for €90 and came home on Friday. After three full days of Sex-On-The-Beach, sunbeds and buffets of multicultural foods, I needed a rest. Although maybe I’ll write another book sometime; about the pleasures of the package holiday.