Dog Days
The art, and memories, of the August vacation.
A new summer month brings certain associations. June means the end of school, and Fathers Day. July is for patriotism. August is for those who haven’t taken a summer vacation yet — or can’t stand to wait any longer.
I was reminded, in a story this week from Monocle, of the differences in vacation culture within Europe. Much of the Continent takes off the entire month of August — yet islands like the UK grind on, with or without air conditioning.
Even the United States, second perhaps only to Japan in terms of rich-country workaholism, switches gears this month. Usually the sun has something to do with it: some head to the beach, the better to fry up a tan for autumn. Others avoid excessive light and heat by heading to the hills: or the mountains and lakes of America’s more temperate zones. Leave it to a trend’s punchy buzzword, like “coolcation,” to release an avalanche of U.S. travel marketing around heat-beating destinations.
Below is a very short list of places I’ve loved spending vacation time. You’ll see more about the themes just above: American, British, and European holiday styles.
And as always with my travel, these names and places bring back pleasant memories of how I spent my summer vacation(s).
I’m still writing about them, long after my back-to-school Septembers.
New Hampshire: Ah, the Lakes Region. The vacation zone of East Coast yuppies, second-homers, and that rare species, the New England Republican. Not to mention the imbalanced hangers-on. What About Bob, anyone?
Lake Winnipesaukee and other natural spaces there are beautiful, and big enough to support a serious summer economy. Apparently that’s changing, partly because of lower visits from Canadians. Our friendly northern neighbors have had enough of the U.S. president’s rhetoric against them.
In any case, I’m headed to the lakes before Labor Day.
Brittany: Historic and heady, the coasts and hills of northwest France have attracted leisure-seekers for centuries. It has everything: scenery, mild weather, Celtic history, traces of separatism, and proximity to Paris. No wonder artists have come here for so long.
I once spent two weeks on Belle Île en Mer. Staying with a friend and his family, I loved every minute. We rode bikes around its towns, chopped wood for their cabin. We swam, and hunted crabs, and ate them for dinner. I could write a book about the island. Maybe I will someday.
Scotland: Many years ago, after a five-month stint in Glasgow, I made a slow way out of Scotland one summer. I had worked in a Scottish gourmet food restaurant, learning local dishes and the Glaswegian brogue.
My first week there, as I stood behind the bar, a man ordered a Tennent’s, the city’s signature lager. I did not understand his words. Asking him to repeat himself, he did, and I still didn’t get it. He pointed to the tap and I finally understood. He looked at me like I had stepped off a UFO.
Imagine, in America, someone orders a Budweiser, and the bartender says, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.” Anyway, the man got his pint.
And all over Scotland, I got my adventure. I hiked Glencoe. I climbed, after hopping a fence, up to the Glenfinnan Viaduct, the same from the Harry Potter movies. I took the train to the seacoast end of the line at Mallaig, just to say I did.
I’d take a coolcation back to Scotland anytime. I would hope to see again the people — the restaurant workers, even the incredulous thirsty patrons — I met there.
I’ve missed them ever since.
./.
Images:
Eugène Boudin. Coast of Brittany. 1870. Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mellon
© Glencoe. Gil Cavalcanti