Center Parcs, 2023 (part 2)
Our next stop was the Jardin des Sports where Louise ordered a pair of espresso martinis. This seemed a wildly inappropriate drink given we were surrounded by badminton courts and a roller-skating class. I was also surprised as she is becoming increasingly cautious with her caffeine consumption; when I made a latte for her at 2 pm recently, she looked livid.
“I’m not drinking coffee at this time, Andy! Have you gone mad?”
Feeling like the Great Gatsby of Center Parcs, I strolled around with my cocktail while the boys played on the grabber machines, wrestled with an unsupervised long-haired boy in the soft play, then kicked back with some fish fingers and chips.
The final stop of our pub crawl was the Leisure Bowl where a disco was starting, a sentence which could have been taken straight from my Malia 2004 diary. That said, Jacob demonstrated more confidence than I had in those days, instantly jostling his way to the middle of the dancefloor and whirling around in circles while a middle-aged DJ encouraged a singalong to “Waka Waka (This Time for Africa).”
After 20 minutes of bopping, the boys’ cheeks were rosy, hair was matted to their foreheads, and their eyes were glazing over. Entering impending meltdown territory, we called it a night and returned to the lodge, having solved 1/9 clues on the Easter Discovery Trail. Joshua didn’t seem too concerned by our failings but, who knows, he might silently hold it against me until he is an adult.
After we put them to bed (no bath), it dawned on us that, besides sharing a leftover fish finger, we hadn’t eaten for hours and were approaching 2 am-kebab-shop levels of hunger. Louise tasked me with sourcing “a massive greasy cheeseburger” which is not, I don’t think, on our Joe Wicks meal plans. Nevertheless, it sounded terrific, and I cycled to The Village Square, assuming it would be a straightforward mission. I confidently swaggered into Huck’s but was advised that they weren’t doing takeaways. Similarly, at Café Rouge, I was dismissed.
“Could I not just sit down as though I’m eating in, then take the food away in a box?” I said, aware I was starting to cut the figure of a desperate man.
“No, sir, that won’t be possible,” the guy said, opening the door for me.
Deciding curry for the second night in a row would have to do, I headed to Rajinda Pradesh where I stood in a queue alongside well-dressed families out for the evening, smelling of perfume and aftershave. I was very aware that I was wearing jogging bottoms and smelling, quite strongly, of beer.
“If you want a takeaway, you just need to download the app,” I was informed by the front-of-house.
“Even though I’m here in person right now?” I asked. “Could I not just order from you, please?”
“Sorry, sir.”
It is never as simple as “just” downloading an app, is it? Besides, my phone was out of battery. I nodded meekly and left empty-handed.
Finally, I returned to the Jardin des Sports where I pleaded with a tattooed barman who took pity on me. Over an hour after I’d left, I cycled back to the lodge and presented Louise with a lukewarm burger and chips wrapped in foil. The hero’s welcome I was hoping for, though, was not forthcoming; she had taken matters into her own hands and was munching on a plain popadom, unimpressed with my efficiency.
Dinner.
After gorging on the burgers, we went straight to bed. It had been a fun, if exhausting, day and I was excited about the prospect of sleep. Given how much energy the boys had burned, they did us a solid and both slept for a straight 12 hours. Sadly, I had no such luck; the second we turned the lights out, a switch flicked, and my mind started racing with anxious thoughts about work, regretful decisions I’ve made in the past, and whether there’s a cure for Raynaud’s. Why does your brain only do this at night? Bloody espresso martini. Maybe a post-midday caffeine cull isn’t such a bad shout after all.
The following morning, Louise and Joshua went to a baking class, and I was due to take Jacob to Football Fun. While I don’t want to be that guy – the dad who aggressively pushes his own interests onto his children, I remain hopeful that he will have some interest in football. Joshua actively dislikes it at present which isn't ideal; when I try to watch matches on my phone, he literally shouts, “No football!” and snatches it from me. I can’t imagine who has influenced such strong negative opinions on the beautiful game.
Before we were supposed to set off, Jacob inexplicably toppled backwards off the arm of the sofa and started crying. I felt bad that I hadn’t been quick enough to catch him, and there was a nervous wait while he sat on the floor, saying he couldn’t move. A few minutes after we cancelled his football class, though, he miraculously sprung back up and declared he was fine.
“Can we go and do the maze now, Daddy?”
I may need to get used to a football-free life.
In the afternoon, we returned to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, an overwhelming sensory overload when you’ve had approximately 3 hours of broken sleep, your head is pounding, and you can still taste stale beer despite having brushed your teeth twice. Still, I needed to be on form for my shot at redemption with Joshua; while the Tropical Cyclone remained off limits, I’d discovered he was tall enough for the Grand Cascade. In the queue, I tried too hard to be a present father and build up the hype. At one point, he said, “Can you stop talking now, Daddy.”
Finally at the top, ready to climb into our dinghy, Joshua looked at me and said he was “desperate” for the toilet. With children, there is no pre-warning, is there? It is 0-desperate in a flash. Not willing to be thwarted on the flumes again, I asked if he could hold it in and the poor guy spent the whole ride wincing, grimacing, and very evidently having A Bad Time.
Next time we come, Louise is taking him on the big slides.
Gluttons for punishment, we spent our final afternoon in the toy shop. The boys’ indecision in picking toys is simply astounding and, between them, they had their hands on approximately 90% of items before we had to resort to, “If you haven’t picked something in 10 seconds, we’re leaving…” - the classic empty threat that never works.
15 minutes later, we finally left with Joshua clutching a toy owl, and Jacob a plastic tractor. I can confirm that both toys are now discarded in a box upstairs where they will likely collect dust until my next charity shop run.
Despite going to bed at 8.30 pm, I was too slow off the mark on our final morning and, after sitting in crawling traffic, only managed to find a spot 20 metres away from our lodge. As I lugged our bags to and from the car, stuffing them into the boot and roof rack, a scowling man in a baseball cap caught my eye.
“I hate this bit,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
His lodge was a similar distance away from the cars and we kept crossing paths. For some reason, he felt it was necessary to make a similarly negative comment every time.
“This is just such a pain in the arse, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes.”
“It really is shit this, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
It was a long half an hour.
It was an extremely windy day, and, on the way home, there was drama on the motorway. Traffic had slowed almost to a halt as it became apparent that a large object was clattering around the lanes. When we got closer, it transpired that it was a roof rack.
Thankfully, nobody had crashed, but 100 metres down the road, a man was standing in the hard shoulder beside his roof rack-less car. He had his hands on his head and looked incredibly pissed off. That is a bad day, isn't it? I spent the remainder of the journey nervously checking our roof, pleased with my decision to get ours professionally installed. Gladly, we made it home unscathed and reflected on a terrific holiday.
Roll on next year.
***
Thank you for reading! If you missed part 1, you can read it here.
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