When I was a child my parents took my brother and I away in a 12’ touring caravan and I hated it. We always stayed in the UK (as my mother did not like ‘foreigners’). It was long before electric hook ups and running water, let alone a toilet or shower inside the caravan.
My father always insisted on a fully cooked English breakfast, despite not having this at home. My mother had only two small rings and a small grill in the kitchen area (powered by Calor gas) and no fridge. After cooking breakfast she had to heat a pan of boiling water to wash up but by the end the washing up bowl was disgusting. Then she made coffee for herself and my father before making sandwiches (no ready made sandwiches available to buy in the 1960s). It was almost midday before we got to the beach where we sat behind a windbreak (it was usually cold) for the rest of the day.
In the evening my mother cooked dinner, usually boil-in-a-bag meal with potatoes. There was nothing to do in the evenings except to read (which I didn’t mind). My brother had a fear of Daddy Longlegs and my mother had to ‘inspect’ the toilets on the caravan before he would venture in. My mother always developed severe constipation during the holiday.
My parents both snored loudly and I struggled to get to sleep.
I am convinced that my experience has put me off going on holiday for life. Not that keen on holidays now.