I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow. It’s the last opportunity to have a holiday on my own without a child in tow – gosh, just writing that feels very surreal. I’m still not quite used to the idea that very shortly I’ll be responsible for a small creature that doesn’t purr, have whiskers, exist solely on Friskies and tuna and require monthly flea treatment. I’m hoping – and relying on – some deeply-hidden, innate natural instincts surfacing and kicking in. Before reaching that stage though I have 10 days of self-indulgent alone time with my dear family and friends to look forward to. Mind you, my getting to Edinburgh involves an epic journey Odysseas would balk at. Good grief.

Since the sad – and seemingly very unfair – demise of Globespan, there are currently only two airlines that fly direct to Scotland from Cyprus outside summer months and as they only have flights once a week, if you want to stay longer than seven days but less than a fortnight they aren’t much help. After spending several hours online juggling with dates, times, carriers and destinations I was starting to get cross eyed and in what must have been a moment of desperate madness clicked ‘confirm’ on what was clearly the daftest option available. Somehow or another I have found myself flying from Paphos to Manchester, arriving at half midnight, and then four and half soul-destroying hours of everything being closed at the airport later, am catching a train from Manchester to Edinburgh. With a change at York. And only six minutes between trains. Eek. I really don’t know what I was thinking of. It is going to take 20 hours door to door. I recently offered to help a friend find airline tickets to Scotland and I suspect that if he’s reading this he may quite sensibly be reconsidering taking me up on the offer.

However, no matter how arduous or ill planned the journey ahead may be, like a Pavlovian dog, I’m still programmed to eagerly anticipate the whole adventure and think of it as an intrinsic and enjoyable part of the holiday experience. I get so excited before heading to any airport and am perfectly happy to arrive two or three hours before necessary so I can wander around the terminal engaging in some quality people watching and soaking up that peculiar atmosphere unique to airports. While train stations generally have an air of seedy gloom to them, their transience being of a rather dismal nature, airports seem to exude an air of euphoric anticipation. Even though there is less of a buzz at this time of year and the visual treats tend not to be so plentiful – far less exposed flesh and regrettable tattoos on display – on the whole it can still be rather rewarding. Of course, by the time the flight is boarding and I’ve been charged an arm and a leg for a rubbery cheese sandwich, €5 for a coffee that tastes of ground acorns and discovered that the MAC lipstick I usually buy is cheaper on any high street, my rose tinted spectacles have well and truly cracked and I am elbowing fellow passengers out of my way in order to be first in the queue to board and escape the artifice and shameless daylight robbery.

My family must have questioned my sanity and state of mind when they heard about the route I had planned for myself and I have just found out that my dear mum is taking a train from Edinburgh to Manchester armed with a vast selection of Marks and Spencer’s goodies and will meet me at the airport so we can travel ‘up the road’ as we say in Scotland, together. I’m not that shy of 40 and my mum is still baling me out.

I wonder if in 38 years time it will be me packing a picnic and setting off on a journey to go and meet whoever is currently residing in my tummy to accompany them ‘up the road’. I sincerely hope not as I would really like to imagine that he or she does not inherit their route-planning skills from their mother.