Desperately seeking...sanity and sunshine

People said I must be mad or desperate. Or having man trouble. It was all of the above and then some, but I needed a holiday. My friends were mostly broke, working or wanting to go away with their partners. So it meant travelling alone with a toddler (Phoebe, 18 months) and a baby bump (6 months). It was not going to mean mojito-induced siestas by the infinity pool. It was January and I needed somewhere hot, cheap, near enough to avoid hellish long-haul flights but out of the Euro zone.

I settled on Dahab on Egypt’s Red Sea Riviera. I’d heard it was a laidback little resort that would cater for families with minimal hassle and guaranteed heat. £420 for our return flights and week’s half-board seemed a worthwhile extravagance.

Flying out was tough - a packed charter flight with no spare seats for Phoebe meant a lot of wriggling and running around until the Medised took effect. No in-flight screening of Mamma Mia for me. Arriving at Sharm el Sheikh airport was daunting and depressing, especially with all the couples waiting by the baggage reclaim. And the physical effort of being pregnant, lugging bags and a hyper toddler through customs, was huge. Why do I always do things the hard way?

Once we neared Dahab, and I realised we weren’t being kidnapped by the minibus driver, the lights of Daniela hotel came winking at us. Its white domes glinted like sugar lumps on the shoreline. The all-male staff were friendly although puzzled as to a why a lone pregnant woman was travelling with a toddler to Egypt’s diving Mecca.

So to my next singleton hurdle: the sit-down buffet dinner. It was quite enticing once I’d embraced my new identity of Only Single Mum in the Resort. Hopefully, by the Red Sea, my fellow tourists would surely assume my ‘missing’ other half was out diving, smoking shisha or sweating out a tummy bug. At least Phoebe gave me something to hide behind or an ice-breaker when I needed traveller chat. 

The hotel had no bar, but instead each room had its own balcony or open patio, with guests lounging outside their rooms chatting, smoking and sipping. So I didn’t feel too much of a social leper when I had to put Phoebe to bed and retired to my own balcony with a book and a beer from the mini-bar. I was up the duff and Billy-No-Mates, but sod it, I was on my holidays. And once you’re confined to your hotel room at 8pm you need to draw on all resources.

Sunrise at 6.30am meant that Phoebe was bouncing in her cot and raring to go an hour earlier than usual. How to kill an hour til breakfast? The buffet of crepes, croissants and a chocolate fountain made it worth waiting for. By 8.30am we were on the beach watching the camels gallop by, the three hours til nap time dragging ahead. A bucket and spade were to be my first and most precious purchase, and luckily Phoebe was too young to be bored. After working four days a week, I hadn’t spent so much quality time with my daughter in months – and it was relentless. But once she was snoozing at midday, I could tan my bump on the balcony. This was starting to seem almost relaxing.

After a few days on the resort, a change of scene was needed. Dahab town was a ten minute taxi ride away, consisting of two streets, one clinging to the shoreline with backpacker hotels, cafes and bars, the other of samey bazaars. There is no beach to speak of, which explained why most hotels were further down the coast. But the gentle Arabian vibe made me feel better for opting out of the neon-lit, more commercial Sharm. Lazy, Bedouin style hippy bars invited us in for shakes to the strains of Sade and we sat on beanbags and soaked it all up.

But, ungrateful as it sounds, Groundhog Day can even hit you on holiday - especially one with a toddler. When booking, the idea of a TV, Kids Club and heated children’s pool seemed like ridiculous luxuries - but they now struck me as totally essential. My pathetic bag of crayons, Mr Men book and Ipod provided a pathetic 30 minutes’ entertainment each day. It made me realise how much our daily life back home revolved around playdates, TV and toys. From then on, accepting our limitations became the theme of the week. No, I could never have a proper swim in the sea. The desert dinner and stargazing excursion was just not going to happen. Camel rides were out, as were two-for-one shots at backpacker nightclubs. But actually, once we got into our groove, Phoebe and bump were the perfect excuse to say no to all these things.

Then on day 4 came The Cramps. As what felt like a spiky eel twisted around my guts, the hotel plied me with mint tea and told me it was a “tourist stomach cold”. Nothing more annoying to a stoic Brit, pregnant and solo, but I’ll admit I was better off than the seasoned traveller in room 14 who was on a drip. On day two of the hideous bug, I suddenly felt alone and 100% responsible, terrified I’d become bedridden and unable to look after Phoebe. And God knows what the unborn baby was making of the spasms, coming at five minute intervals. In my brief delirium, came a vision: all stirruped up in a Cairo hospital giving birth three months early. And all because I wanted a winter tan.

Just as my belly finally calmed down, Phoebe then got the runs. The fetid nappies piled up but she was pretty chipper and luckily recovered before we got our plane home. And despite being a week of full-on child care, I’ll confess Egypt was a break of sorts. I’d bonded even more with my firstborn, easing my guilt that she’d soon be sharing her world with a yelping baby sister. Our exotic voyage had also given me gung-ho confidence – we could travel anywhere now! My bump was burnished, my baby could almost say “camel”, and despite being even more knackered than when we’d left, surely that was what a holiday was all about.

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