Scotland to Cornwall: Family Trips and 7 Lessons I Didn’t Ask For

They say a family trip is an opportunity to recharge. Only, I'm pretty sure those idealistic people don't have kids. Or at least not kids like mine.

See, I’ve just returned from a week away. And I'm feeling completely and utterly wrecked. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Parentally...That last one might not be a real word, but it should be!

I will say, the house was quaint. Not home, but fine. It ticked the boxes. Somewhere between rustic charm and “Why don't any of the plates match?”

And me being me, I found at least 27 things to complain about (which wasn’t bad considering we were only there for 7 nights), the first of which being about the frighteningly narrow Cornish lanes I had to weave down to find the house. I was far from impressed, having driven for 2 days, and admittedly, I did hurl "I hate you so much right now!" at the husband on arrival.

The roll top bath went unused, much to Mr Jones’ disappointment. It was apparently one of the reasons he picked that particular 'gem of a house'. But I couldn’t bring myself to get in. I just kept picturing how many other posteriors had simmered in that porcelain trough over the years.

I don’t care how pretty it looked in the panel-clad ensuite; it’s still a giant bum bowl.

Eating was difficult.

Mostly, I didn’t.

Not because I was trying to be awkward or mysterious or because the air was particularly nourishing in Cornwall. I just couldn’t. The change in surroundings, the deep-rooted feelings of worry for my nervous kids, and the lack of promised freezer space to store my boy's safe foods… it threw me. And when things feel out of control, I cling to the one thing I can control - food, or rather, the lack of it.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not a diet. It’s just a flimsy thread of regulation I cling to when my head gets foggy.

A bad habit from my teens.

And a cycle I just can't break.

The mother-in-law was, of course, outraged by this. But to be fair, she was tutting at most things I did or didn’t do anyway, so what’s one more disapproving glance between family? Especially when she was still happily queuing at the Cornish pasty shop and then later, tucking into fish and chips, neither of which I can eat thanks to my charming gluten intolerance.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what she expected me to do. Magic up a quinoa wrap from thin air?

Anyway, we’re back home from our family trip now. Back to the glorious grey. Soggy Scotland, where the skies are consistent and the internet is my friend. And because I am both generous and still somewhat sleep-deprived, I’ve decided to share seven things I learnt on this not-quite-a-holiday breakaway.

1. Pack for everything. I mean it. Every weather type. Every eventuality. I took too much, maybe. But in my head, I needed every single thing. And probably things I didn't bring. I looked like I was moving house. Not for a week, but forever. And I regret nothing.

2. Take toys. Take games. Take whatever keeps your child semi-calm and semi-distracted. We got lucky - the Airbnb had a basket of mismatched but glorious entertainment treasures. Lego Connects, board games with missing pieces, and a marble run with barely enough marbles. It was OK. Just. Had the rain stuck around, we’d have burned through it all in a day and ended up building towers out of sandwich crusts and emotional damage.

3. Based on those 2 points, and a further 74 that I won't bore you with, I can confirm that going abroad is not on the cards for us anytime soon. My kids require an entire van of backup plans, and Ryanair won’t even let you take a full-size toothpaste without a full interrogation.

4. Eating your own body weight in ice cream is a thing - I didn't personally, but between the kids, mine and Mr Jones' 2, I think they put away enough to be classed as ice cream experts! I may even go and print certificates!

5. Mornings are still not my thing. Not even on holiday. I was up between 7 and 8 every day. Not because I had to be, or because my child demanded it. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting downstairs alone in a strange house while the others slept in. I could’ve left him with a snack and his tablet, sure. But my brain wouldn’t rest until I was sat next to him, doing nothing in particular, just being there. That’s one part of parenting no one talks about - the silent watching, the background comfort, the early mornings when you’d rather be asleep but your instinct says, “Stay close.”

6. Take more photos. We had some stunning moments. Not magazine-stunning. Not staged or filtered or begging for social media likes. Just quiet, beautiful, fleeting moments of connection. Of peace. But I didn’t take enough photos, and my memory is shocking already. Blurred by broken sleep, never-ending laundry, and thirteen years of trying to keep tiny humans alive. So take more photos. Your brain will thank you later.

7. And lastly, trust your gut. I’m not just a helicopter parent - I’m a fully armed security drone. I hover. I overpack. I pre-empt every meltdown like I’ve got an internal alarm system set to 'mild panic.' I carry pull-ups, wipes, fruit pouches, fidget toys, noise-reducing headphones and a backup plan for every activity. And yes, I get the dirty looks. The tuts. The well-meaning (but not really) advice that I should “let him push through the discomfort” or “stop making allowances” because “he’ll never learn if you’re always there to fix it.”
   

But here’s the thing: I am always there. And I always will be.

Because I know my kids better than anyone. I know what they can manage, and what’s going to tip them into overload. And if that means grabbing my boy’s hand in the middle of a meltdown and saying, “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” instead of stepping back and letting the world toughen him up, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.

So yes, I’m home. And I’m wrecked. But also? Weirdly proud.

Not of the picture-perfect moments, we had very few of those, but of the chaos we handled, the meltdowns we calmed, the socks we reattached for the third time in one car journey. Proud of the quiet graft that never makes the holiday album. The kind that says: we did it. Badly, messily, imperfectly… but we did it.

We survived extended family judgments and disapproving looks. We smiled politely through unsolicited advice and opinions that made me want to unleash my inner sarcastic monkey.

We even made it through that meltdown on the motorway - 74mph, full volume, full distress. The kind that shakes your nervous system to its core. Thank goodness for the Crelling safety harness and a service station just a few miles up the road, where I could sit on the grass, console my distressed child and drown our sorrows in a bottle of lukewarm juice.

Because that’s the bit no one claps for. The unseen work. The mid-crisis calm. The absolute mastery of keeping everyone mostly alive and vaguely regulated… in a tin can on wheels, miles from home.

And if that’s not a family trip worth learning from, I don’t know what is. P.S. If this post made you laugh, cry, or feel just a little bit more human, that’s exactly what my book was written for. You can grab a copy over on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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 "At every phase in our life, we make memories that we cherish all our lives."

Shweta Basu Prasad