'Staycation': Why it's time to ditch this snobby term and embrace holidays in Scotland – Susan Morrison

The huge grey trunk would be waiting for us at the station when we arrived, clutching the Wizard Summer Special and reeking of Oddfellows, that peculiar hybrid of confection and medicine which my mother believed cured travel sickness.

Keep yer Monte Carlo, we had hit the Clyde coast ready to party. Girvan was our resort of choice. Glaswegins tended to gravitate westwards for the holidays. Our neighbours went to Fife. My father was incredulous. Why turn down the chance to view sunset over the Ailsa Craig?

There was ice cream, chips and Irn Bru on tap. There was sunshine. We swam in the sea and the sand was hot enough to make kids shriek “oooyah! burny!” when they ran across it.

We have a photograph of granny in a deck chair. She has removed her cardigan. It must have been scorching. We got sunburn, soothed by pink calamine lotion.

The grown-ups paid local teens to babysit whilst they went out in the evening and came back giggly with more chips.

Obviously, this was Scotland, so as well as sunshine, the chances were equally high that a Force Ten could come barrelling in. That's why a fortnight's holiday for a family of four required a massive trunk. Not only did we pack sundresses and shorts, but also duffle coats and matching Aran sweaters.

On Monday, the entire family could be fitted out as carefree boulevardiers ready to stroll the promenade and on Tuesday we could be kitted up as relief crew for a destroyer on North Atlantic convoy duty.

We had the cinema for inclement days. It was not considered odd to watch The 7th Voyage of Sinbad two days running. Or three, for that matter. There was always a wander around Woolworths. There was also the museum, but that was the last resort.

There were colouring books, playing cards and annuals and anyway, just because it was raining, didn’t mean you couldn’t go swimming in the Clyde. My cousin Jayne and I did. It is now considered highly fashionable. I like to think we were ahead of the curve there.

On good days, we got to sit and watch fishing boats unload their catch on the quayside. Sometimes things with many legs would escape the net and we’d see the crew chase them and batter them to death in front of us screaming kids. Happy days.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a holiday. Perhaps not entirely for mum, since we went self-catering, which for women essentially means doing the dishes with a nicer view, but it was for us. It was the longest time we spent with our dad, and it's still that I remember.

So, everyone, calm down. I know Boris has said that flying to the Costa, the Algarve or that cheeky wee Greek island is off the cards, but a foreign holiday is not a human right.

Let's drop the word ‘staycation’, with that snobby inference that Hameldaeme is second best. Swap out CattleClass Airways for CalMac ferries to visit Scotland, because it's worth it. Pack heavy sweaters for the chilly days and buy some colouring books.

Just don’t all rush to Eyemouth. I’ve got my eye on that.

A message from the Editor:

Thank you for reading this article. We're more reliant on your support than ever as the shift in consumer habits brought about by coronavirus impacts our advertisers.

If you haven't already, please consider supporting our trusted, fact-checked journalism by taking out a digital subscription.