It was at the pub during a downpour, while my children entertained themselves by pretending paper straws were people, that I had what felt like the perfect moment of synchronicity with the 1970s. Outside, the Channel churned. Inside, we lightly steamed. We have been on fancier holidays and had more exciting times, but for pure delight, there is no question in my mind that the theme-park experience of dragging your kids through the memory of your own childhood summer holidays beats every modern alternative.
The impulse behind this experience isn’t one of which I entirely approve. Nostalgia has its downsides, and as a motivating force can make us timid and clingy, cleaving too rigidly to the things we know. Heading into summer this year, I was aware that my itinerary was so sentimental – so rooted in a homesickness for the distant past that, while it can strike anyone, comes particularly fiercely for those of us raising our kids a long way from the circumstances in which we were raised – there was a small chance my kids would reject it. There was something perverse, I understood, in travelling from our home in New York, with the attractions of the entire US on our doorstep, to Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight, so I could enjoy reliving what it was like to be five. But I couldn’t help it.
For my kids, meanwhile, the learning curve was steep. “What’s a pub?” they asked – for the love of God, how can these be my children? The experience of riding on the top deck of the bus on the island’s Southern Vectis fleet was wilder than any ride they’d been on at Coney Island; they sat at the front and, every time we plunged down a hill, squealed and raised their arms, rollercoaster-style. After it rained – which was, obviously, every single day – they discovered the wonder of snails, stopping every few paces on the footpath to escort a snail-in-danger safely to the verge. It’s hard to imagine even the Grand Canyon rivalling the thrill of the morning we spent under a low grey sky at the donkey sanctuary.
Of course, a large part of the appeal of all this is the depth of the meaning invested in it. Every street we took, every crab sandwich we ate, triggered a moony reminiscence not only in me but in my dad, who as a child holidayed in these parts too. There will come a stage, I assume, when my kids will cross continents to flee exactly this vibe, but at eight, they still want little more in life than to extend the reach of where they belong. “We’re tourists, but not really,” said my daughter, proudly, and experimented with British pronunciations. One morning, we hiked to the top of the hill and wandered around the beautiful town cemetery until we found the grave I was looking for – that of an old friend who had lived on the island – where we laid wild flowers and cherries. You don’t get that kind of emotional dividend at Disney World.
I am aware that somewhere in here there is a snobbery at work, the vacation chapter of that fussy parenting model that rejects modern plastic toys for wooden ones and limits exposure to preteen shows on Nickelodeon. As we marched along coastal paths and sat on windy beaches, I marvelled at the ability of my hyper-urban kids to make their own fun and my own ability to leave the house with nothing – not even paper and a pen – to entertain them.
As a result, this 70s-style holiday of ours was not only more enjoyable than an all-inclusive resort with scheduled activities for kids, it was morally superior. When, after an hour of playing in a field using two pine cones for dolls, my daughter lifted one up and said, “Nature’s Barbies!” I felt more smug than at any time in my life – quite a bar to clear – something the changeable weather only deepened: there is nothing like the pinch of mild endurance to elevate an experience from good to great. On the basis of which, of course, the English seaside holiday, whether nostalgic or not, is the very best the world can offer.
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Emma Brockes is a Guardian columnist based in New York
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