Warning: I am fully aware of how self-indulgent this is about to sound. Please don’t abuse me. If you have a weak stomach, you may need a bucket.
As readers of my Travelalphablog know, I love to visit overseas beaches. Let’s face it, New Zealand waters are just too cold for me. Going numb before you can enjoy your swim is not my idea of fun, especially not that painful stage of getting wet, not to mention the stress of that unsolved dilemma of whether to go in gradually, or jump in and die of shock. So every couple of years, my husband and I pick a location and resort, fill our bags with books and swimsuits, and head off for a week. Often we try to do this in New Zealand’s winter, when the Pacific Islands or Queensland are an easy three or four hour flight away, and are still warm and balmy. But even in the summer (and this summer in particular), New Zealand’s weather is variable, and a tropical beach, with that freedom and happiness that comes with warmth, is always inviting. My favourite location is Thailand. The combination of the sea as warm as a bath, Thai food and the Thai culture of sanuk (joie de vivre) can’t be beaten. But we’ll try other spots.
We recently spent five days and nights at a beach resort in Malaysia. We slept late in our villa on stilts above the Malacca Straits, enjoyed long, late, breakfasts from an enormous buffet selection, read and slept again in our room and on the beach, swam in beautiful, buoyant Emerald Bay and lazed on loungers with a cool beer, enjoyed a fabulous bath house spa experience, swam later at the pool with an aquatic monkey then enjoyed an icy lime juice or cocktail whilst watching hornbills and bats fly in and out of the palm trees, and finished the day sipping wine on our deck watching the sun go down, before an exotic meal at one of the resort’s (overpriced) restaurants. It was a wonderful opportunity to read, to relax, to talk, and just to be together.
But we also spent half the time uncomfortably hot and sweaty, and my hair frizzed up like Basil Brush in the humidity so, frustrated, I abandoned my useless hair straightener. Having read in the local newspaper about a dengue fever epidemic, I spent half my time checking that I was covered by insect repellent, but still managed to get a number of bites. I’m waiting another week or so before I know I’m out of the woods for another (more dangerous) dose of the disease. I also spent the other half of the time ensuring I was completely covered by SPF 30 or above sunscreen, wearing a hat (one of the only people I saw doing so), and keeping out of the sun, but still frustratingly managed to get a bit of colour on one shoulder. Given that sun and mosquitoes are such an integral part of the whole beach resort experience, I am starting to wonder if this is the right holiday for me.
Perhaps I should be searching out a mountain lodge, where I can curl up in front of a fire with a nice red wine with my book and some good music, where we can take invigorating walks, and then soak later in a hot tub. Where I can bundle up, and don’t have to worry about whether I’m showing too much flesh, or what condition it might be in. It does sound appealing.
But a long winter is coming. And a niece is planning a wedding in Rarotonga. Seems I’m not done with beaches quite yet. And right now, in the midst of the worst summer I can remember, that doesn’t sound so bad.
Sounds lovely, Mali. I didn’t realize Malaysia was like that.
I know who Basil Bush is! Do I get a prize?
I’m sort of done with beaches. I like the idea of a beach — the sound of the surf, the sun on my bare skin — but worry about skin cancer (and wrinkles), the fact I don’t swim, and gritty sand in places that never see daylight make me realize that I don’t really like hanging out at the beach anymore.
When we visit my sister-in-law in Florida we always go to a particular lovely beach. I’d much prefer we spend the day looking at the birds along the space coast, but Dean still likes sitting (and sleeping) on the beach and I think Andrew still likes the water. Clare feels as I do about the beach, although birding isn’t up her alley either.
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An aquatic monkey???
I’m all for cozy winter retreats. I was never a beach person, and the older I get the less I want to reveal.
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That second paragraph made me drool.
May the dengue not be with you.
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A prize for Dona for knowing who Basil Brush is. Accommodation and dinner in Wellington, NZ. You just have to get here. Boom boom!
Dona and Helen also reminded me that I hate having sand between my toes! Thank you.
OUT = beaches. IN = cosy winter retreats.
Helen: Aquatic monkey = swimming, diving, monkey. I have photos. Will post them somewhere sometime.
IB: 1. It was meant to!
and 2. so far so good, touch wood, fingers crossed.
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I used to live on the gulf of mexico, which is no resort. It’s an industrial ocean gulf with brown sand beaches. But we still went down to Galveston or South Padre and had a good time. What I remember most is that the ocean is hypnotic and that afterward, I’m exhausted. Absolutely exhausted. It doesn’t matter if I strolled down the beach, played in the surf, or laid on a beach chair and read a book. I come back totally wiped out.
When I go someplace wintry, I sometimes get exhausted (like if I’m trudging through deep snow, but really, I don’t do that often!), but usually I’m just cozy and happy.
This is funny because in my “real life” I like summer well enough and hate hate hate the cold. But vacations are a break from real life.
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Is “touch wood” like our “knock on wood”?
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Bridgett: Yes. We understand “knock on wood” because we are exposed to it in books/ tv/movies. Forgot you guys might not know touch wood. (We’re kinder and gentler down here).
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