The Reluctant Roadtripper (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 2

Sometime in the past . . .

Galloway Haven Holiday Park once sat just outside the village of Portpatrick in Dumfries & Galloway. Growing up, I became very familiar with it, as my family visited for at least two weeks every year. Without bloody fail.

I'd dread the run-up to the summer holidays as the school conversations would inevitably turn to which exotic climes people were headed for. Everyone else would be going to Spain, or Greece, or Portugal. Those with more adventurous or well-off families might have been venturing further afield. Dubai. Mexico. Florida. So many places I'd always fantasised about visiting myself.

And, every year, I would eventually be forced to admit that, as usual, my family were travelling less than 100 miles south. We weren't even leaving Scotland. I'd try to ignore the pitying looks from my classmates, but it got harder with every summer that passed.

I'm not sure why my folks were so hellbent on sticking to staycations, as everyone calls them now. Possibly due to being creatures of habit. They'd taken the chance of bringing me and my older brother to Galloway Haven when we were pre-teens, decided it was the perfect place for kids, and never ventured out of their comfort zone again. 

And, to be honest, I actually did love it there myself. Once I was there, I usually forgot that I'd rather be next to a pool in Benalmadena like my friend Tracy or living it up with Mickey and my mate Lisa at Disney Orlando. When you're a kid, you can make pretty much any type of holiday feel magical, even without leaving the country. It's a unique gift we sadly tend to lose as we get older.

Okay, so there may not have been a waterpark, or an all-inclusive buffet, or sunshine . . . But there were always plenty of other kids to befriend, and there was even some limited entertainment. Mainly in the form of a silly little disco each night, and a teeny games room with pool, table tennis and some arcade machines, but it was better than being at home, and seemed exotic compared to my term time commitments.

And then there was Owen.

Sigh.

A year older than me, he was the owners' son and probably more present than they were. Everyone knew Owen.

He was the Golden Boy; the Big Man on Campus of the holiday park - I guess Big Man on Camp would be more accurate here. Parents loved him, girls fancied him, guys wanted to be him. His family lived in a sprawling bungalow on the edge of the caravan park, so he basically - in my opinion anyway - was living the dream of being on holiday all year round.

My brother Kieran was the same age as him, so they became friends over the years. My relationship with him was a bit more . . . Chequered, shall we say?

We started off as enemies, I suppose: when we were pre-teens, he would join in with my brother by endlessly mocking me. He even literally pulled my pigtails once. When I told my mum, she merely laughed and informed me that him teasing me meant he probably had a crush on me. 

(Even back then, I was apparently worldly-wise enough to tell her she was setting up false expectations for the rest of my life by perpetuating such a myth.)

Then, when I was almost 14 and he had just turned 15, we had a brief kiss during an ill-advised game of spin-the-bottle one night. It was actually my first kiss, and I remember enjoying the brief feeling of his warm, soft lips pressed against mine.

We both kissed a few people that night as part of the game. But it definitely made me see Owen in a different light. A soft-toned "crush" light, to be precise. Even if the events of that night were never alluded to ever again.