How not to gain weight on holiday — the expert guide
However, it's worth remembering that the average person will gain 4.4lb while on their summer holiday. Extra drinks, delicious food, more time to relax and less movement all contribute to this unwelcome excess baggage on the way home.
At 61, I know this from personal experience. On holiday I used to easily put on half a stone in two weeks thanks to the all-inclusive buffet, cocktails, ice creams and days on the sunlounger. But what I learnt when, aged 57, I transformed my fitness levels, lost 5st and got a body I was finally proud to parade by the pool, is that you can still enjoy yourself without completely wrecking your fitness gains and your waistline. Here's my holiday survival guide.
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Times
5 hours ago
- Times
My tour of England's glorious cathedrals produced a clear winner
I am not religious. I have only a passing interest in architecture. But I've always been fascinated by cathedrals: the elaborate vaults and arcades, the clash and contrast of clerestories, the stained-glass windows and ornate organs. Cathedrals possess an aura that compels us to touch their walls. They make us feel small. Cathedrals are seldom humble, often humbling. But I'd seen very few English cathedrals and little of England, my experience largely limited to European celebrities: Sagrada Familia, Notre Dame, Santa Maria del Fiore. Always up for a challenge, always a glutton for self-imposed deadlines, I decided in June last year to visit all 42 of England's Anglican cathedrals in the space of a year. I do not own a car, and trains require mortgages, so I often relied on family and friends for favours. My partner drove us three hours from our London flat to a log cabin in Ledbury, accompanied by our year-old whippet. I planned to start strong: three cathedrals in three days. Hereford felt homely, much like the city, and Gloucester hosted the most striking cloister I'd ever seen. But Worcester proved the favourite, not for the Norman crypt, certainly not for King John, but because it welcomed dogs. Our whippet pulled at the lead, dragging me past a well-behaved collie and timid dachshund, itching to reach a statue with an outstretched hand. The highlight of the trip: our usually quiet puppy, bark echoing across a silent nave, desperate to play with a marble Bishop Philpott. June, July, and August consisted of low-hanging fruit, day trips to cathedrals near London: Portsmouth, Chichester, Chelmsford, Guildford, Rochester and St Albans. All remarkable places with unremarkable cathedrals. My brother and I travelled to Salisbury to see a building that John Ruskin described as gloomy and profound. I found the exterior gloomy, the interior profound. Salisbury is full of surprises: the font, designed by William Pye in 2008, delivers streams of water over black marble, and an intricate Chapter House hosts Magna Carta. Salisbury proved an early favourite. It remained so for only six days. I visited Ely on the most crowded day of the year: the October harvest festival. Throngs of people ate toasties and bought trinkets by the truckload. A storm arrived at the nick of time, detaining me inside the great nave, where I joked with stallholders, selling farmhouse cider and autumnal reefs, about the Great British weather. Ely provided the coldest toastie and the warmest welcome. I can't remember much of the architecture, such were the joys. I had to squeeze in several cathedrals each time I ventured north. Leicester, Nottingham, and Sheffield proved vibrant and fascinating places, let down by their cathedrals. Then came Lincoln. If I ever tire of London, you'll find me in Lincoln. I climbed the Steep Hill, cheered on by hardened locals, and stumbled breathlessly upon the mighty façade. Lincoln Cathedral lends itself to romance, presenting the perfect marriage of complexity and size: it was once the world's tallest building, until its central spire collapsed during a storm in 1548. Every architectural feature seems enriched with armies of gargoyles or fields of carved foliage. Something captures your attention with every glance. The cathedral represents its city: self-assured, punching above its weight. I visited Winchester in January with bookish friends. Its cathedral commands attention: the endless nave, the soaring arcades, Gormley's sculpture in the perma-flooded crypt. We stumbled upon Jane Austen's grave, started discussing books, as we often did, and spent the rest of the day on the Austen trail, visiting her old stomping grounds. A few weeks later, I went to another great literary cathedral, the oldest cathedral in England, Canterbury, host to Chaucer's pilgrims and Edward, the Black Prince. My mum and I, after a few midday wines, stared at Becket's shrine and slurred about British history. The climax of Canterbury is its stained glass, the best I've seen: the south window seemed never-ending, showing off the most ancient glass in England. Canterbury is a marvel. My mum and I left feeling giddy, perhaps because of the wine, more likely because of the windows. Cathedrals are not designated by size, age or style. Function alone defines their status. A cathedral is the principal church of a diocese, a geographical area overseen by a bishop and distinguished by the presence of the bishop's cathedra, the Latin word for seat or throne. Cathedrals were once linked to the granting of city status, which explains why relatively small places such as Ely, Wells and Salisbury are cities, while larger places such as Reading and Northampton are not. As I ticked off the places close to home, places I'd been before, I noticed new details. St Paul's is an exercise in symmetry, an exposé of mathematical precision, a work of architectural genius. Or so I'm told. My memory of that day belongs largely to a Chinese tourist, probably mid-thirties, clinging to the rails, afraid to move near the top of the dome. She laughed nervously. She could not speak a lick of English, but managed to hold out a hand. I looked over my home town, standing proud in the jewel of its skyline, staring out at the Shard, the Tate and Thames. I'd been saving one cathedral, hoping to make it my last: Durham. The best view comes from the train. Legend dictates that John Betjeman pleaded for the stationmaster job because of that view. The cathedral watches over the city, the Wear protects the cathedral. I rushed over cobbles, heading down and climbing up, until I found its feet. The inside of Durham matches the beauty of the outside: the gigantic nave, rib-vaulted ceilings, the scale of Norman ambition. I spent two hours strolling with neck craned. You could spend a lifetime in Durham and barely scratch the sandstone. I saw the miner's memorial on my way out, two angels holding up a coal-black slate. The last colliery closed in 1993 but the memorial stands as a testament to Durham's history: the cathedral and the pits, two symbols of a stoic city. Durham challenged Lincoln but fell just short. My story does not have a happy ending. Time seemed to slip away and so far I've visited only 36 of the 42. I missed out on some apparent unsung heroes: Bradford, Carlisle, Ripon, Truro, Wakefield and Wells — a delight, so I'm told. I plan to visit them soon. It's nice to know there's always more to see. In England's Cathedrals, Simon Jenkins writes that, in the course of building, 'masons reflected the lives of the communities around them'. I found that many cathedrals represented their people: St Paul's felt prodigious, a little arrogant; Lincoln seemed self-assured and proud; Durham proved complex and stoic; and Worcester was welcoming to humans and dogs. But that sentiment felt unfair to other places: the people of Rochester, Bristol, Coventry, Newcastle and many other towns and cities, unlike their cathedrals, remain remarkable. The joy of visiting English cathedrals is visiting England, spending time with its brilliant characters.
The Guardian
6 hours ago
- The Guardian
The moment I knew: moving so far and so fast wasn't in my character but it just felt right
In December 2024 I arrived in Sydney ready for an adventure. A friend was getting married in Australia and I had originally booked the trip with my ex, but when he dropped out after our breakup I decided to go ahead. I was considering quitting my job and moving back to the Netherlands so, even though I didn't know what my future would look like, I was ready for a holiday. I planned a week with friends in Sydney and Newcastle, a week with a friend travelling up the east coast and a final week on my own. On New Year's Eve I'd been at an all-day boat party on Sydney Harbour when a friend said she was off to meet an old flame of hers at a fireworks event in Bondi. I remember her telling me he had a nice single brother called Ben and showing me a photo: he had a moustache, was wearing a tank top and didn't look like my type at all. I told her I wasn't interested. I just wanted to stay with friends. When my friend's taxi arrived she pulled me in with her – and thank goodness she did because, when I met Ben in person, he looked completely different to the guy in the photos – tall and handsome with a big smile. He immediately made me laugh. We kissed within 10 minutes of saying hello, which was about half an hour before midnight. Ben had been ill with food poisoning and hadn't been in particularly high spirits until we arrived but said he immediately forgot about all of that. There was just this instant connection and we both felt as though we had nothing to lose. We lived too far apart to ever see each other again. The following day Ben and his brother invited my friend and me to a music festival. We worried it would be awkward at first but Ben and I picked up where we'd left off. We were like little kids running between stages. The next morning I had to leave for the wedding in Newcastle. I remember kissing Ben goodbye at the ferry terminal in Manly, wondering if I'd ever see this man again but knowing I definitely wanted to. We started texting straight away and I was so distracted I ended up missing my connecting train. Later in the trip I got an ear infection just before a five-day scuba diving expedition on the Great Barrier Reef. I cancelled – and something inside me was happy to, knowing that it would give me five days without a plan. Ben was competing in a triathlon in Nelson Bay and he asked if I wanted to come watch him drown, which felt like a fun way to hang out. It turned out to be an indirect invitation to stay with his aunt and uncle for the weekend. I booked a flight immediately. At this point I saw the whole thing as a bit of fun – a holiday romance, nothing serious. Being so far from home gave me a kind of 'why not' mentality. We both knew long-distance between London and Sydney would never work so we just decided to enjoy each other's company for as long as we had it. Over the next couple of days we spent time with his aunt and uncle, slept in a tent on the beach and competed in a mini-triathlon together. I remember travelling back to Sydney with Ben holding my hand the whole way back. He didn't want to let me go and I felt the same way. He booked flights to Melbourne with me for the Australian Open that week, and I ended up delaying my return flight so we could have an extra day together. Leaving each other at Melbourne airport was when we decided to see if maybe we could make long-distance work after all. We agreed to meet in Scotland six weeks later, calling each other every day in the meantime. I met all of Ben's family and friends on that trip to Scotland and, after four days, he asked me to be his girlfriend. This time when we went our separate ways it wasn't just goodbye until the next trip; it was goodbye until we moved in together. It wasn't in my character to do things like this but it just felt right and my friends and family could see that. They told me to take a leap of faith and see what happened. Ben and I reunited eight weeks later at Sydney airport and this time I was holding more than just a holiday bag. It turns out that my first impressions of Ben were right; we talked non-stop that New Year's Eve and, to be honest, we've never really stopped. He is still that fun and charismatic guy who makes me feel comfortable. For now Australia is our home but we plan to move back to Europe together in the longer term. Whether that's England, Scotland or the Netherlands remains to be seen – that's for figuring out later down the line. All I know is that we will find our home together. Do you have a romantic realisation you'd like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian.
Daily Mail
6 hours ago
- Daily Mail
If you won't stop your kid from kicking my seat on an airplane, I will... and I have: KENNEDY's hilarious rant against 'gentle parenting' at 30,000ft
It's that time of year, folks – peak vacation period in the northern hemisphere - and it's become painfully clear that we need a collective refresher course on commercial air travel etiquette. For those who fly a lot, the number of inconsiderate slobs who inhabit our shared space is shocking. Indeed, the real Long-COVID may be incurably boorish behavior.
