re:Treat

I'm back in my den in Jordan with the fan pointed at my face. Ever since I staggered to our departure gate at T3 with bulging tote, large tripod and two excitable tots, I've been thinking about all we've done and the people we've seen over the last month's holiday in the UK.

In the FT magazine this weekend, The Shrink and The Sage discuss the question: should we retreat? It's come to be a modern day requirement to escape from the every day chaos and go to a place which is less busy to allow your thoughts to bubble unhindered and get back in touch with your self and your direction. 

Although I'm not sure that this retreat (East Anglia, London, Scotland; pebble beaches, roses, vegetable gardens, barbecued sausages, trampolines, sand pits, fonts, black currants, spaniels, boats, black taxis, red buses, day trains, sleeper trains, grass, grass and grass; baby cousins, big cousins, grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends, friends, friends, friends of friends; jelly making, stream damming, dog wrangling, baby squeezing, bouncing, climbing, running...and some sleeping in between) would be everyone's idea of a retreat. But if you concentrate on the second syllable, that was it. Just a month's worth of treat upon treat and a wondrous computer-free month full of things and people and places we are far from here. No time to navel gaze but time instead to have our heads raised, and to fill our heads and hearts with the wonder of everything that is part of the UK in July and its 1050 shades of green. 

We took off out of Heathrow. The Lozenge cackled like a happy harridan and Rashimi, from my lap, gazed out onto the blue, the green, the reservoirs and the houses. We were all excited about being back together with J, who had left us 10 days before to get back to his Arabic books. And this made the wrench of saying goodbye to everyone else, a little easier.

The Lozenge spent the flight with his nose pressed against the iPad watching Bob the Builder. Rashimi was on my lap for 4.5 hours, mostly having fun kicking the video screen down onto my shins, nicking my drink, wriggling and squirming, when he wasn't batting his eyelids at the beautiful 8 year old Jordanian girl across the aisle. Every man and woman who passed stopped to tickle his feet or kiss his cheeks. Now I realise why he looked so bored during our trips to Waitrose. (Not so, I.)

As we touched down at midnight, I said to the boys: 'Look, there's Amman down there.' Rashimi called: 'Man? Man?' into the dark window, wondering where the man was.

J was there waiting when we came scooting into the arrivals hall with an overloaded trolley and the boys couldn't have run quicker into his arms, with their crocs slapping on the marble shrieking: 'Daddddeeeee!' 

We got back to our flat to discover St Grace had tidied every cupboard and dusted every nook and cranny. It feels quite zen and ordered to be back here. With less choice of people, things and places, there is inevitably less chaos, making our base more of a clear, clean springboard from which to lead our lives. 

Now I have no excuse but to spring into action again. But I'm so glad for having had all that time for happy messiness and no particular direction other than to spend time with people we love. The perfect retreat.