A View to a Kill

It's that time of year where people with disposable income

are hoping to book a bargain holiday.  But how — as the credit crunch casts its damp-squibby shadow over the land and global warming submerges some of our favourite holiday destinations —

can folk be sure that they're a) getting a good deal, and b) are keeping their private carbon beach free of footprints?

Being utterly skint (but it doesn't matter, honestly, because if I were a Buddhist I'd be a gnat's breath from enlightenment), it was lovely last year to be able to say to friends with a delicate whiff of censure, "Mm, holiday?  Oh, no, we're staycationing this summer", as if we were electing to stay home amongst the credit card bills and stale, defeated air as recompense for their reckless squandering of the planet's resources on their bastard all-inclusive to Lanzarote.

I lost count of how many people asked, after a short pause, "Really? Staycationing where?"*  The problem, y'see, lies in the definition of 'staycation'. Because while for some people 'stay' means remaining at a defined, fixed point, there are those for whom 'stay' means travelling as far as possible before risking malaria or friendship bracelets.

Anyway, truth be told, we were harldy putting ourselves out.  A travel rug spread out on the lawn at home to suggest la dolce vita maybe carbon neutral, but when you add in the patio heater and gas barbecue necessary to combat the British weather, the whole concept starts to look about as leaky as the canopy of a disappearing rain forest. 

A concerned Sting experiences

rising sea levels first hand

So how do the perennially skint amongst us who don't (for various reasons known only to themselves) play the mandolin, enjoy a change of scene and the chance to experience how other people live?

I'll tell you how. 

You take a leaf out of the book of the local couple who viewed my bloody house last Sunday, who together have given rise to this year's holiday buzzword — micro-tourism. 

They arrived on foot (of course), admired the scenery (ie, an unfitted kitchen and walk-in larder);  in fact they immersed themselves in our culture for a full fifty minutes before enjoying a complimentary cup of tea and an eco-friendly walk home.

Total cost of their mini-break?

Except...

In order to undertake those lengthy, exhausting yet oh-so-necessary house-viewing preparations — namely decontaminating every surface bar the ceiling — I had to call upon the able assistance of Mr Muscle and his life partner, Extra Thick Bleach.  By the time we'd finished, the hole in the ozone had unravelled to the equator.

Bloody time-wasters.  Costing us the earth.








*And no matter how much brio I employed, "Um, here" only ever sounded weak, following as it did such a lofty statement of planet-saving intent.)