A family holiday to Center Parcs is as good as life gets… isn’t it?

Memories from our stay last year.

Photo by Saori Oya on Unsplash

A friend of mine told me that installing a roof rack on his car was the moment when it really struck him that he was a dad.

“More so than the birth of your daughter?”

“Yes.”

I cannot fully vouch for his claim as I paid extra at Halfords for a teenage lad who was, I think, stoned, to install ours while I sat in Starbucks, sipping a latte, but I can see his point. A roof rack confirms your youth is over.

When Louise and I first met, she had grand plans of driving a Ferrari by the time she was 30. Instead, we co-own a 0.9-litre Dacia Sandero decorated with scratches and dents following an incident where I bumped into an Uber in Bradford in what may or may not have been an insurance scam. I sometimes wonder whether she questions what her life would have been like had she never met me. When she saw me standing on a swivel chair, stuffing bags into the roof rack, then swearing because I couldn’t figure out how to lock it, I imagine it crossed her mind.

We’d told the boys that we’d go to Sundown Adventure Park on the way to Center Parcs but, following a misunderstanding (from me) about how childcare vouchers work, my paycheque was significantly lighter than anticipated, so there was a tweak to our plans. I hoped that if we just didn’t mention it, they wouldn’t notice that we had taken them to a park near Wakefield instead.

Within 30 seconds of getting out of the car, Joshua fell over and ended up sitting down in a deep, muddy puddle. Full change of clothes required. Also, it was an unseasonably cold day, creating the perfect storm for my infuriating seasonal ailments: hay fever and Raynaud’s. Following a sneezing fit, I tried to blow my nose with quivering hands and wondered if this was a bad omen for the week ahead. I knew better than to moan though because we were ON. HOLIDAY.

Fortunately, any fears were dispelled by the time we arrived at Center Parcs. The sun had emerged, my hands had regained a normal colour, and the boys were giddy with excitement, Jacob singing a rather crude song which involves him taking a poo in a rainbow. If I’m honest, it’s not one of his best - I preferred his earlier stuff such as “Joshua is a Bum Bum.”

Having been a few times, we are well-versed in the opening day admin and managed to unpack the car, hire bikes, and find a parking spot without any arguments or barbed comments. A first. As I bounced back from the Village Square with a disposable barbecue and a bottle of Prosecco, I shared a cheery smile with a man in a Notts County shirt and felt full of optimism.

The boys were sleeping in the same room but, around midnight, Joshua had a coughing fit, waking everyone up. It was decided the solution was for he and Louise to swap beds as I am apparently such a heavy sleeper that I cannot hear loud and persistent coughing from a small person in the same bed as me. My meek protestations were met with short shrift and an under-the-breath comment about the time(s) I have cleared off to the spare room when the going has got tough.

It was not a vintage night’s sleep. Still, we needed to be up and at ‘em because Jacob was booked onto Off-Road Explorers at 10 am. With the boys in trailers, we cycled to the Outdoor Activity Centre where they were setting up. Jacob loves anything to do with transport and I was jealous that Louise was joining him. However, in the introductory talk, the lady said, “Just to warn parents, this will probably be the most stressful half an hour of your life.”

No smile.

Joshua and I spectated for a few minutes and her warning appeared to be accurate. 3-year-olds were literally driving jeeps around a complex course as parents ran alongside, encouraging them to steer and desperately trying not to get their feet run over, armed only with a handheld emergency stop button. As Jacob repeatedly ploughed into a wall while Louise patiently advised him to reverse, I felt I may have dodged a bullet.

In the afternoon, we went to the Subtropical Swimming Paradise where, in the cubicle next to us, a dad sounded like he was already approaching the end of his tether. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, you didn’t do the activity, so you don’t get a badge.”

“But I want one!”

“You will get one tomorrow.”

“No, I won’t! You will get one tomorrow!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you are 7 years old!”

“No, I’m not! You are 7 years old!”

Pre-children, I imagine I was a bit judgmental when I heard parents (let’s be honest, especially dads) shouting at their kids. Nowadays, I fully appreciate that you have no idea how far people have been pushed to get to this point. For all I know, before he came swimming, angry cubicle dad might have had his foot run over by a 3-year-old driving a jeep.

Swimming at Center Parcs is terrific and the boys, excitedly donning new pairs of goggles, had a blast, splashing around, and flying down the flumes. Jacob, though, demonstrated a lax attitude towards the traffic lights system and came alarmingly close to clattering headfirst into a small girl. I exchanged a flat smile with her mum, then hastily moved the boys into a different pool.

Joshua was keen to go on the Tropical Cyclone and we patiently waited in the queue for 20 minutes, anticipation building. Finally, on the top floor, a man subtly pointed to the height restriction sign which I had somehow ignored. Not wanting to hurt my son’s feelings, I was creative with the truth.

“Ah, it looks like the ride is closing, Josh. What a shame.”

“No, it’s not, Daddy. I can see people going on it. Look, right there.”

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to pull the wool over his eyes. We walked back down the steps in silence.

Back at the lodge, I took the boys squirrel counting while Louise cooked a chicken curry that Jacob refused to eat despite having literally said, “Yes, I love curry!” when she’d told him earlier. At least he is past the hurling-dinner-at-wall phase.

After we put the boys to bed, we sat in the living room with the lights off, barely speaking. Seemingly forgetting how draining a day at Center Parcs is, we’d made ambitious plans to enjoy the evenings together; red wine, music and card games had been mooted. Midway through Celebrity MasterChef, though, Louise yawned and said she was going to read in bed. Gladly, there were no coughing fits and barring a terrifying moment when Joshua just appeared by the side of our bed circa 3 am, it was a much better night. No bed swapping.

Photo by Steven Kamenar on Unsplash

The following morning, I took Joshua to build a nature house, an enjoyable and wholesome activity that fell within the confines of my limited DIY abilities. Buoyed by the father-son-bonding time, I was in high spirits when we returned.

“Andy,” Louise said in hushed tones as I was making a cup of tea. “Joshua just told me he’s sad about not going on the Tropical Cyclone yesterday.”

Seriously? He hasn’t let that go? He’s spent all morning with me, and we’ve had a great time. Does the bug hotel we built together count for nothing? Nobody tells you that you will feel guilty about something or other almost permanently when you have children.

In the afternoon, we went on the Easter Discovery Trail. It started well - the boys excitedly solving the first clue within minutes - but progress stalled significantly after we popped into the Country Club for a drink. There is a soft play area inside so you can sit sipping a Staropramen while keeping a loose eye on your children as they tear around. Center Parcs is onto something here; all soft play centres would be considerably more appealing/bearable if they had bars in them.

Examining the map, Louise suggested that, if we made a couple of detours (and bypassed numerous clues), the Easter Forest Discovery Trail could double up as a mini pub crawl. Who said mid-thirties parents can’t party? I was half expecting her to ask me to wear fancy dress and sink a sambuca.

Our next stop was the Jardin des Sports where Louise ordered a pair of espresso martinis. This seemed a wildly inappropriate drink given we were surrounded by badminton courts and a roller-skating class. I was also surprised as she is becoming increasingly cautious with her caffeine consumption; when I made a latte for her at 2 pm recently, she looked livid. 

“I’m not drinking coffee at this time, Andy! Have you gone mad?”

Feeling like the Great Gatsby of Center Parcs, I strolled around with my cocktail while the boys played on the grabber machines, wrestled with an unsupervised long-haired boy in the soft play, then kicked back with some fish fingers and chips.

The final stop of our pub crawl was the Leisure Bowl where a disco was starting, a sentence which could have been taken straight from my Malia 2004 diary. That said, Jacob demonstrated more confidence than I had in those days, instantly jostling his way to the middle of the dancefloor and whirling around in circles while a middle-aged DJ encouraged a singalong to “Waka Waka (This Time for Africa).”

After 20 minutes of bopping, the boys’ cheeks were rosy, hair was matted to their foreheads, and their eyes were glazing over. Entering impending meltdown territory, we called it a night and returned to the lodge, having solved 1/9 clues on the Easter Discovery Trail. Joshua didn’t seem too concerned by our failings but, who knows, he might silently hold it against me until he is an adult.

After gorging on some burgers, we went to bed. It had been a fun, if exhausting, day and I was excited about the prospect of sleep. Given how much energy the boys had burned, they did us a solid and both slept for a straight 12 hours. Sadly, I had no such luck; the second we turned the lights out, a switch flicked, and my mind started racing with anxious thoughts about work, regretful decisions I’ve made in the past, and whether there’s a cure for Raynaud’s. Why does your brain only do this at night? Bloody espresso martini.

I can confirm the Subtropical Swimming Paradise is an overwhelming sensory overload when you’ve had approximately 3 hours’ broken sleep and you can still taste coffee liqueur despite having brushed your teeth twice. Still, I needed to be on form for my shot at redemption with Joshua; while the Tropical Cyclone remained off limits, I’d discovered he was tall enough for the Grand Cascade. In the queue, I tried too hard to be a present father and build up the hype. At one point, he said, “Can you stop talking now, Daddy.” 

Finally at the top, ready to climb into our dinghy, Joshua looked at me and said he was “desperate” for the toilet. With children, there is no pre-warning, is there? It is 0-desperate in a flash. Not willing to be thwarted on the flumes again, I asked if he could hold it in and the poor guy spent the whole ride wincing, grimacing, and very evidently having a bad time.

Next time we come, Louise is taking him on the big slides.

Despite going to bed at 8.30 pm that night, I was too slow off the mark on our final morning and, after sitting in crawling traffic, only managed to find a spot 20 metres away from our lodge. As I lugged our bags to and from the car, stuffing them into the boot and roof rack, a scowling man in a baseball cap caught my eye.

“I hate this bit,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

His lodge was a similar distance away from the cars and we kept crossing paths. For some reason, he felt it was necessary to make a similarly negative comment every time.

“This is just such a pain in the arse, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It really is shit this, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

It was a long half an hour.

We drove home in howling wind and rain and there was drama on the motorway. Traffic had slowed almost to a halt as it became apparent that a large object was clattering around the lanes. When we got closer, it transpired that it was a roof rack. 

Thankfully, it bounced into the hard shoulder without anybody crashing, but 100 metres down the road, a man was standing beside his roof rack-less car. He had his hands on his head and looked very stressed indeed.

As a result, rather than reflecting on a lovely family holiday, I spent the remainder of our journey anxiously checking our roof, praying the young lad at Halfords was more reliable than he’d appeared.

---

Thanks for reading! Despite being wildly expensive (especially now we’re slaves to the school holidays), I am a big fan of Center Parcs and we’ve had some great holidays there over the past few years.

• Have you ever been to Center Parcs? What were your experiences?

• Do you have any holiday destinations you regularly return to?

*Update: Following extensive research (writing a note on Substack which people kindly replied to) I have made the decision to post on Mondays at midday from now on.