My View - Wednesday May 30th 2018 

Booking a holiday is often more fun than the actual event. It's that fantasy stage where unrealistic options are just a click away. Flights appear reasonable, beaches look pristine and nobody's twigged the all-inclusive buffet photo was taken with a fish eye lens. Mentally, I become that toned mum in the brochure, joshing around in the sun in my white tankini with a fit husband and freckly kids. Oh, the relaxing japes we'll have... 

My fantasy sometimes extends to being a rugged-adventurer-mum, as seen on walking boot adverts. A modern matriarch creating memories for my nuclear family. We'll explore untrodden paths, forage for truffles, then fricassee them on an open fire outside our North Face tent bought off Schpock. When our tummies are full and our limbs weary, we'll drift off to sleep to the sound of a Hoopoe at sunset. 

In reality, I'm a holiday thief. I spend months quizzing friends and colleagues about where they've been in the hope that if it worked for them, it could work for us. Web links are forwarded to my inbox, days out are mapped out should we find ourselves in the Rhodes or Rejkavik region. Once, I followed someone's recommendation so closely that when I returned, we realised we'd stayed in the same room in the same hotel and had the same thoughts about the artwork above the bed. 

On the whole though, the system works, barring the time we found ourselves holed up in a urine-sodden tent in Holland on the outskirts of a theme park. It wasn't so much the stench or skittering mice that ensured our lack of sleep for three nights, more the rock convention across the autobahn encouraging our bulldog-tattooed neighbour to strum along with his badminton racket until 4am. 

But this year, there's been a drastic change of plan. I've had to put the beach house in Benidorm on the backburner following confirmation from the Drain Man that the leak in our cellar is going to cost roughly the same as a week in Spain to rectify. So I'm currently plucking up the courage to break this news to the rest of the family. 

My revised plan is something I'm calling The Yorkshire Seven. Seven days out from our doorstep, with the benefit of our own pillows. Holiday rules will still apply though: I won't be cooking and I'll need three wines per night. And just in case anyone is under the illusion that I'll be available in an emergency, I'm photoshopping some snaps of us on a Caribbean Island for social media.  

We'll get into the true spirit of the region by eating loads of Bronte biscuits and Yorkshire ham. If the kids don't whinge, they can have a bag of Pontefract cakes. My husband can relax, knowing I won't be making him hire a pedallo or eat paella and I won't even have to book our new kittens into the cattery. You know, this could actually work. 

On the other hand, there's always the credit card. Click.