After nine years without a proper holiday, I have finally escaped.
No studio. No travel bulletins. No alarm clocks set to ridiculous hours for early broadcasts. Just a small suitcase, a train ticket, and a few days in Weymouth to rest and reset.
It feels strange even writing that.
When you work in radio, life tends to run on a clock. Bulletins at fixed times. Shows that must start on the dot. Music that fades exactly when it should. Even days off can end up full of “just one quick thing” that somehow turns into a full afternoon of work.
So this week is different. For the first time in nearly a decade, I have properly stepped away.
And the destination is somewhere that carries a bit of history for me.
I’m staying at Littlesea, which is just outside Weymouth. The last time I was here was in 1992. That’s 34 years ago. Different era entirely. Back then the world felt slower, television still had proper regional identities, and nobody carried a computer around in their pocket.
I remember Littlesea being a happy place back then, so when I decided I needed a break, it felt like the right place to return to. A small personal full circle.
Of course, the universe decided that getting here should involve a small adventure.
The day started well enough. I got the bus into Basingstoke to pick up a few essentials before the journey. The usual things you realise you need once you’re actually going away for a few days.
And then my phone pinged.
That single notification that strikes fear into the heart of every British rail passenger.
Your train has been cancelled.
The reason?
Signalling problems in the New Forest.
At that moment my nice calm holiday mindset disappeared rather quickly. Instead I was standing there in Basingstoke wondering how on earth I was actually going to get to Weymouth.
Still, I headed to the station to see if there was a workaround. British train travel has taught me that if Plan A collapses, there is usually a complicated Plan B involving extra platforms and at least one unexpected change.
Sure enough, there was an earlier train I could catch.
The only catch was I’d have to change at Southampton Airport Parkway.
Fine. No problem.
Except when I got there… you guessed it.
More signalling problems.
By this point I had that familiar travelling feeling creeping in. The one where you start thinking: this journey might take a while.
But I pressed on. Eventually I got onto the train heading further down the line and things seemed to be moving again. We rolled along quite nicely for a bit until we reached Bournemouth.
Then the announcement came over the speaker.
Everyone had to get off.
The train was terminating there.
Now, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about that. Being politely ejected from a train halfway through a journey is never anyone’s favourite travel experience. But in a strange way it did help.
I realised at that point I needed a serious sugar boost. The stress of the delays had taken its toll, and a quick stop for something sweet helped reset the system a bit.
Sometimes the body knows exactly what it needs.
Eventually the third train of the day arrived. By this point I was prepared for anything. Delays. Cancellations. Possibly a sheep wandering across the line for dramatic effect.
But no.
This train behaved perfectly.
No problems. No dramatic announcements. Just a smooth ride down towards Weymouth. Somewhere along that stretch of track, I could actually feel the stress draining away.
The view out of the window helped as well. Dorset has a lovely calm feel about it once you get away from the towns. Fields, open space, and that sense that you’re getting closer to the sea.
By the time we pulled into Weymouth station, I felt a lot calmer than I had a few hours earlier.
Of course, I then made what can only be described as a rookie holiday mistake.
Instead of getting a taxi to the caravan park, I decided to walk.
In my mind this seemed perfectly sensible. A bit of fresh air after sitting on trains all afternoon. Stretch the legs. Enjoy the surroundings.
What I forgot about was the suitcase.
More specifically, the fact that my suitcase has wheels with the navigational instincts of a drunken shopping trolley.
The walk from Weymouth station to Littlesea took about an hour, and by the end of it my arm felt like it had been through a serious workout. Every bump in the pavement seemed to fight the wheels. The suitcase zig-zagged its way along the path like it had a mind of its own.
So here is a small note to my future self.
Next time: get a taxi.
Still, when I finally arrived at the park and checked into my caravan, the effort suddenly felt worthwhile.
First impression?
I love it.
The caravan is the perfect size for me. Clean, cosy, and exactly what I needed after the chaos of the journey. It instantly felt like a little base for the week.
After unpacking a few things I had a wander around the park just to get my bearings. One of the first places I checked out was the bar.
And that’s where I had another small shock.
The prices.
Let’s just say the drinks are not exactly budget friendly. I stood there looking at the menu thinking that my social life in that bar may be fairly limited this week unless I win the lottery.
So it might be more of a “quiet drink in the caravan” kind of holiday.
Later in the evening I decided to try my luck at the bingo. It seemed like the sort of thing you should do at least once while staying at a holiday park.
Sadly, I didn’t win.
But I did notice something quite amusing. The prize money they were giving away was actually bigger than what I used to give out when I hosted games at Buzz Bingo.
So although I walked away empty-handed, someone else had a very nice night.
And now I’m back in the caravan writing this, with very tired legs and an arm that is still slightly annoyed about the suitcase incident.
Despite the chaotic start, I feel surprisingly peaceful.
The trains were a mess. The journey took longer than planned. And that walk was definitely an error in judgement.
But I’m here.
After nine years without a proper break, that feels like a small victory in itself.
Tonight will be simple. No work. No radio prep. No thinking about tomorrow’s show or the next bulletin.
Just a quiet evening, a bit of rest, and the knowledge that the sea is not too far away.
My legs, quite frankly, have earned the night off.
