There are plenty of weird British traditions, but one of the best has to be the August Bank Holiday Weekend. This is a time when everybody is expected to leave their homes, and head for a guest house or holiday cottage, preferably all leaving at the same time in order to create traffic chaos.
I normally opt out of this strange custom, but, this year, I joined in, and headed down to the Welsh seaside. But I only went for one night, as I didn’t want to have too much fun.
Our hotel was pretty busy, and pretty expensive (compared to usual). It normally feels like a gentile well-preserved treasure from a bygone era. This time, it felt like a well oiled machine, processing guests at a barely comfortable rate. At breakfast, I felt like a sausage, both in appetite and metaphorically speaking.
Still, we love the place, and will continue to come at less busy times, whenever we can. At least the beaches were beautiful and relatively quiet, as always. And I always seem to come away with a decent photograph or two. It’s almost like shooting fish in a barrel.