All-in-all, then it was not a bad holiday, although touring a small caravan through some of the world’s most dangerous post-conflict minefields is not everybody’s idea of a relaxing fortnight. However, the occasional loud bang and rocking motion of the caravan does help to dispel that too-common holiday torpor that so often descends on holidaymakers on less fraught two-week breaks.
There is, also, something to be said for the intensity of the mine-detecting experience, especially when you are increasingly aware that the tour company has palmed you off with a dodgy mine-detector that has trouble detecting anything less than a loudly-ticking thermonuclear device, or – for some reason – any nearby Rottweiler bitch that is in season.
Anyway, the caravan cutlery draw did have a couple of serviceable desert spoons which did help in locating the mines much better than the supplied mine- detector, to be fair, though, it has to be admitted that the spoons were hopeless at detecting any dogs, let alone Rottweilers – in season or not.
The wife did say, though, that she had not paid all that money to crawl through war-ravaged scrubland on her stomach. Although, I did point out to her that the exercise – should she survive - would do wonders for her body-mass index. A remark that she seemed to find less reassuring and confidence-building than I’d hoped.
Still – after all is said and done – it was still better than a week in Blackpool with the wife and her mother. So – maybe – next year we’ll be back again – that is assuming we did manage to find all the bits of the caravan - after we’d taken that wrong turning on the last day - and we can get them all to fit back together before next year’s holiday season begins.