I LOVE BUTLINS
resort
'HOW imaginative,' said friends en route to Tibet, or bound for a fortnight's water- colour course in a hilltop monastery in Umbria. 'How brave,' said other mothers as they headed to the wild unspoilt shores of Eigg or North Uist for shrimping on the beach with their children. 'How . . . amus- ing,' said those who were too shocked to say anything else.
Let's face it, a week's holiday in Butlins is not, currently, a destination of choice — not even for the working classes, who are supposed to love a knees-up by the sea- side. Going to a holiday camp is simply not aspirational or exotic enough, not when we have so many holidays (sales of overseas packages have risen by 45 per cent in the 1990s), and the important thing seems to be not so much the frequency of our breaks as what they say about us.
We want to be thought fit and rugged, so we go canyoning in the Swiss Alps or white- water rafting in Colorado. We want to be thought elegant and tasteful, so we rent lush villas on Tuscan hillsides where we can eat the right sort of ham, or we 'summer' on Martha's Vineyard. We want to be thought understated, so we go to Scotland or Ire- land and pretend not to mind the rain. But I didn't want to do any of these. One, I hadn't been asked; and two, I faced a five- day hole in July when, minus husband, I had nowhere to stay with my three children.
Butlins seemed the easy answer. It was only 12 miles away from my father's house on Exmoor; I could leave my children in the care of clotted-cream-fed Redcoats with comforting West Country accents, and have a blissful week lazing around my chalet with my book. 'I went to Butlins in Minehead for three years running when Hugo was little,' said my sister-in-law, 'and it was the only time I ever had a real rest.' I drove up the Exe Valley to Minehead with Caroline's words ringing in my ears (`You won't make any friends, but your children will love it; you have tea at 5 o'clock; it's bliss').
When you get to Minehead you can't miss Butlins, which has just had £58 million lavished on it by its owners, the Rank Organisation. Most of the money has gone on a vast tent called Skyline, which looks like an upturned udder and contains such treats as Harry Ramsden's, Burger King and various 'spaces' for Butlins' legendary Redcoats to perform (according to my brochure, this was where I was going to be able to 'relax and literally watch the incredi- ble entertainment come to life around me').
When I checked in, the lady at the desk urged me to hurry straight to my assigned restaurant, Ocean Drive, which was staying open specially late — i.e., past 6 p.m. — to accommodate Monday's intake into the resort: a mere 8,000 campers. So we rushed to our chalet, dumped our bags, and rushed to the restaurant (when I say rushed, you must understand that getting from A to B in Butlins is a bit like getting around Heathrow — full of families push- ing trolleys of luggage and buggies, argu- ing about who has got the keys and tickets: rushing takes time).
Our table, number 555, was already laid with rolls and butter, and a little stainless- steel teapot and teacups. The children were very excited when a server arrived with four jumbo cups of Pepsi for us to wash down the kids' menu, which read that night: main course, golden fishies, with french fries; sweet, lemon bombe; choice of carbonated drinks. As the server, Richard from Solihull, approached, I signalled at him wildly to take away the fizzy drinks, and asked him for some semi-skimmed milk for the children instead. 'Sony,' he said, as he placed the brimming cups in front of each child. 'We don't do semi-skimmed milk. You're on holiday, aren't you? Can't you enjoy your- selves?'
I had just been wondering how on earth I was going to cope. We are not talking Michael Winner roughing it at Cliveden and complaining about the consistency of the freshly squeezed orange juice. It was the basic things. How were we going to cope with having our 'tea' at 5 p.m. and then eat- ing nothing until the restaurant opened again for my breakfast sitting at 9 a.m.? And how were we all going to squeeze into rooms so small that the doors didn't shut when the beds were in, and the beds them- selves were covered with oilcloth mattresses, as if we were about to give birth on them?
I felt despair rise from the pit of my stomach as I realised that all past travel — trips to Israel, Africa, Peru etc. — had left me better equipped for one night in Bangkok than five days in Butlins. And then it dawned on me: this was about as foreign an experience as anyone who holi- days abroad is ever likely to have. Forget ape-spotting in Uganda, diving off the Bar- rier Reef, even going to the moon in a Vir- gin rocket. Butlins at Minehead beats them all hands down in the competition for the Holiday with a Difference 1999.
So at every breakfast, lunch and tea — which was served on the dot of 5 p.m. — my children had their choice of carbonated drinks, and I had my choice of tea or cof- fee. I devoured my main courses which were always presented with a salad garnish or composite of leaves, while my children thoroughly enjoyed their Turkey Drum- mers and Bubble-gum Surprise.
In the evenings, we wandered around with the other families, pushing buggies and watching the shows in the Skyline Pavilion. My two-year-old clutched a bottle filled with teeth-rotting Ribena, just like all the other toddlers, and in the many shops and cafes my two older children whined and begged for me to buy them sweets and toys until I was driven to screaming, 'Do you want a smack? Just shut it or smack your bot- tom!' very loudly, just like all the other tired mothers. I became quite used to the level of noise. All over the resort, but particularly in the swimming-pool — sorry, waterpark — Butlins plays the sort of music that sounds like people striking dustbin-lids together very fast. And I soon became used to the accommodation, much as Old Etonians find they adapt to life in prison.
In fact, I can highly recommend Butlins to women like me, who find they have nowhere to go for a few days and whose children demand incessant aural and visual stimula- tion. There are two other Butlins — in Bog- nor Regis and Skegness (known on-site as Boggie and Skeggie) —and the Redcoats tell me that there are the same fabulous, ear- splitting facilities in each, all upgraded last year at a cost of £138 million. May I just rec- ommend that you arrive at your Family Entertainment Resort of Choice with the following items: cotton mattress-covers, available at John Lewis; towels and soap; a peppermill; a bedside light or powerful torch so that you can read in bed without using the eye-watering overhead lights, and, most important, earplugs so that you can sleep without being woken by the mother in the chalet next door screaming, 'If you hit your little brother again, I'm going to smack you one! Who do you think you are? Louise Woodward?' as mine did on most nights. Since we are all pretty good now at packing for those trekking holidays in Kathmandu, my Butlins Survival Kit should present little challenge to the seasoned traveller who wants a really exotic holiday next time round. So see you next year, then!
The author is a freelance journalist living in Brussels.
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