Living to tell the tale of travels! Team Weekend takes a look at their holiday highs and lows

Our imaginations are richer than Sheikh Mansour. Our memories are brighter and more vibrant than a flock of love birds.

For Team Weekend has travelled to all corners of the world – actually, we’ve not yet been to Antarctica, but it’s on our list – and lived to tell the tale.

Like some latter day Phileas Fogg, the fella who went Around The World In 80 Days and whose name was nicked by the Durham manufacturer of miniature garlic breads, we are worldly wise and know our dinars from our dollars, our West African francs from our Lesotho loti from our Honduran lempira.

So it is time to set sail. It is time to vicariously join Weekend readers everywhere as they slap on the Factor 50, stow their £1 Nice Price rattan roll matt and venture far beyond the paradise that is Western-super-Mare. Summer holidays are a chance to kick back, relax and enjoy sun, sangria and, erm, y’know the other one – but modesty forbids.

And so, without further ado, let us regale you with our 10 Best – and Worst – Holidays ever. It’s been emosh. See you on the other side.

Andy Richardson

Great Holiday

There are few things finer than learning about different cultures, eating sensational foods, enjoying wondrous views and realising that in the end, people are pretty much the same – wherever they live and from wherever they come from.

Fine, so the residents of Tacloban eat different stuff from the locals in Tacuarembo while the people in Tirana have different accents from those in Tipton and the men and women of Tirasol watch different TV than their counterparts in Tiruchirappalli.

But, basically, irrespective of what Donald Trump might have us believe, we are basically all the same. This much I learned while enjoying two spectacular holidays in my early 20s; one in the USA and one in Thailand and Malaysia.

I travelled to the USA for two weeks, flying solo, after a particularly unpleasant break-up; the start of a pattern of Bad Romance that persisted for the next 20 years. Phew. Glad that’s all over.

My dad drove me to the airport, doubtless wondering where it had all gone wrong after I emerged on the morning of my flight with hollow eyes and ashen face following a night on cheap Asda brandy. Oh, the joys of youth.

I’d booked a fly-drive to California on a whim; walking past the former British Airways shop in Birmingham one afternoon, seeing a cheap flight to San Francisco and simply walking in and buying it. Sorted.

I had no plans, no knowledge, no experience and no route. As I soared skywards, my possessions comprised a Rough Guide to the USA, a ruck sack full of clothes and a really bad hangover. What unfolded was an age of discovery.

I drove into Monterrey while unexpectedly listening to Frank Sinatra’s I Met Her In Monterrey. Serendipity is a wonderful thing. I was taken into a frat house by a bunch of guys I met on Route One and given a bed for the night. I hung out with bonfire makers on a beach, was spellbound by the solitude and calm of Death Valley, I got snowed in at the vast and magnificent Grand Canyon and I left Las Vegas after less than an hour, wondering why a country of such natural beauty could also be filled with such desperate and narcissistic human beings.

I ran up the Kelso Sand Dunes, just as Val Kilmer did in his film about Jim Morrison’s The Doors; I drove 500 miles in a day to get back to the coast; I drove up San Franciscan streets so steep that I couldn’t see over the bumper of my car and I ditched the emotional baggage of a really bad break-up and came back inspired, rejuvenated, energised and – wait for it – happy.

A trip to Thailand and Malaysia a year later was similarly remarkable. Though I eschewed the Asda brandy the night before my trip, I travelled in similar style. A lift from my beloved father to the airport, a guide book in my rucksack and a head full of dreams – with that, I was off.

I ate some of the best food of my life; simple things, like chilli and squid, that were cooked hot and fast in a wok. I ran uninhibited into a Thai ocean with two German girls I’d met as a tropical storm soaked us to the skin.

I caught a train across the Thai and Malaysia border and immersed myself in local culture. I lay on a hammock beneath banana palms on a silver-sand beach at Kota Bharu; smiled knowingly when I saw a vast cricket pitch in the centre of Kuala Lumpur and felt the same sense of freedom and completeness that I’d experienced a year before in the States. I met fabulous people – from charming and generous locals in Thailand to fellow travellers from around the world who sat up late over bottles of cold beer and BBQ fish.

And I realised that in travelling the world to see remarkable things we’re really just searching for one simple thing; our better self.

Rubbish Holiday

In considering the most pointless and depressing holiday of my life, it’s difficult to know which to choose: North Wales or Laos.

I think I’ll choose both, while throwing in a quick segueway to New England in The Fall, as you do. My memory of a formative trip to North Wales is a little hazy. My older sister and brother, my parents and I made an annual trip to the North Wales coast as kids. Fun times.

Though on one occasion, the trip was anything but fun. A more accurate description of it would be short-lived, or non-existent. I was a sickly child; always in hospital for one reason or another.

There were kidney problems and twisted tubes, bouts of pneumonia and the removal of tonsils. Spending as much time at Dudley Guest Hospital as I did at home had some advantages; on my fifth birthday I received three birthday cakes and a Big Up on ITV’s Tiswas.

The cakes came from my parents, the nurses on Ward SomethingOrOther and the kids in our street. And then Chris Tarrant read my name out and said he hoped I got better, which, remarkably, I did. Around that time, my parents booked a week-long break.

A chance for them to recover from the rigours of bringing up three energetic kids, an opportunity to get away from hard-grind jobs and the duty of putting family first. We packed the car, drove to Wales, my temperature sky-rocketed to 100F or more and back we came. I don’t think our clothes made it out of the suitcase.

Illness wasn’t to blame for an appalling trip to Laos, in South East Asia. Eating rice that had been washed in microbially-dodgy water in the River Mekong was.

I sat down in my A Frame hut after a delicious evening dinner of curry and rice with friends I’d met on the road. We drank beer, exchanged stories, made plans, shared stories of loved ones, then went back to our rooms. Around 4am, I woke.

I ran from my hut and my body kinda did stuff it had never done before. My mouth became a water cannon, projectile vomiting – sorry, if you’re eating your breakfast – across the sandy floor. And for 10 days, I could neither eat nor drink a single thing without it exiting my body quicker than it had entered.

I lost a stone – result – and at Bangkok Airport, having rescheduled a flight home after a pointless fortnight away, I gave up the ghost and stuffed my face with KFC; knowing full well it wouldn’t last.

The doctor in Bridgnorth told me I’d got dysentery and would eventually have died had I not come home and taken the right pills. I’ve not yet returned to Laos, and I’m not sure whether it would have been more sensible to simply set fire to 100 £10 notes rather than making that trip. The effect would have been the same.

There’s just enough time to mention Boston. I booked a trip as a present for a then-girlfriend, while living in London. Except we broke up a few weeks before we were due to fly. I did the decent thing, offering to book extra hotel rooms so that we could still go.

But having both decided against that, I flew solo – a spare seat beside me all the way there and all the way back. Truth be told, the holiday was exceptional – the beaches of Cape Cod were stupendous, the colours of New England in the fall as vivid and remarkable as the oils on an artist’s palette, the people of North East America were as warm and genuine – and funny – as those in the Black Country.

On another holiday, to Madagascar, I face-planted the road from 7ft; putting myself in hospital as I tore my top lip from the rest of my face. Like, ouch. It turned out to be the best thing that could have happened, despite the lifelong scar. For I found myself in the hands of – and at the mercy of – a group of locals whose kindness, generosity and benevolence was truly remarkable.

They nurtured me back to health and showed me that kindness is universal, friendship is instantaneous, warmth and generosity are qualities that we all share. The great American civil rights activist said: “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” And that’s never been truer when it comes to travel.

Rebecca Stanley

Great Holiday

A trip to Iceland with my fiancée was the most magical, awe-inspiring trip I have ever embarked upon.

As we rushed to get ready for a Northern Lights-spotting trip after only being in the country for a few hours, we were greeted by them dancing across the sky right outside of our apartment – the perfect start to our Iceland adventure.

The rest of our week was filled with stunning national parks, jaw-dropping waterfalls, exploding geysers, the serene Blue Lagoon, and watching whales and dolphins swim in the wild.

I hope to return to this beautiful country in the near future.

Rubbish Holiday

I haven't had many truly terrible breaks, but a friends’ trip to Gran Canaria certainly ranks low.

While the weather was hot and the scenery beautiful; one of our group ended up in hospital, another got sun stroke on the first day, and we all became awfully burnt and sea sick on a dolphin spotting trip.

To make matters worse, when we were already glum and ready to come home, we experienced terrible turbulence that saw us circling the runway waiting for the opportune time to land.

For someone terrified of flying, this was the final nail in the Canary Islands coffin.

Leigh Sanders

Great Holiday

It was a holiday I thought I would never get to experience.

It was the summer of 2016, and for the first time in 58 years Wales had qualified for a major international tournament.

Myself and my pals had never, ever dreamed it possible.

We saw Bordeaux, Cambrai and Paris as we made it to three of Wales’ six-game run to the semi-finals.

We interrupted a marriage proposal up the Eiffel Tower, were interviewed on Hungarian radio, convinced a local to call her unborn child Gareth Bale and had numerous photos with new friends from Slovakia, Germany, and the French riot police.

It’s hard to put an international football tournament experience into words – especially when your team is doing well.

I just hope Wales don’t leave it another - now - 55 years to let us do it again.

Rubbish Holiday

Your first year of high school is a weird time for your family to take you to Ibiza, especially when they choose to stay on the outskirts of party capital San Antonio.

What made it worse, though, was spending half of the two-week holiday in bed – ill.

On day two or three I had what seemed a harmless full English breakfast at a nearby restaurant. But we think the egg was undercooked.

My family swear I caught mild salmonella – I thought it was the end.

My sister was so scared of my Exorcist-like shaking that she refused to sleep in the same room.

The sheer cold I felt while temperatures outside were in the mid-30s temperatures made the whole experience feel like an out-ofbody one.

Luckily I had the second week to enjoy. But until my early 20s I refused to eat an egg not cooked by myself or good ol’ mum.

Heather Large

Great Holiday

From spotting koalas in the trees to walking over the Sydney Harbour Bridge – one of my best holidays was spent in eastern Australia.

I spent two weeks with my family taking in the sights in Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and travelling along the Great Ocean Road.

For the first few days I had to pinch myself that I was actually Down Under – although the 24-hour flight should have been enough to convince me.

The highlight was a stay on Kangaroo Island, where we got a closer look at the country’s famous wildlife and watching stunning sunsets.

Fourteen years later and I’ve yet to make it back there but I’ve promised myself that I will return one day.

Rubbish Holiday

I’ve been fortunate not to have had a holiday that’s been marred by misery from start to finish but I’ve had a few mishaps along the way.

I’ve had a mad dash through the airport to make it to the gate for a flight to France with just seconds to spare after getting stuck in stop-start traffic on the M6.

It was made worse by the worry that the Ryanair staff would ask to weigh my obviously overweight hand luggage. Thankfully they didn’t have time – phew.

Another time the historic sights of the Spanish city of Seville were truly lost on me thanks to a bout of food poisoning.

I spent the whole time I was there feeling incredibly clammy and queasy – the only sights I saw were the public conveniences.

Even now if somebody mentions Seville, I shudder from the memory.

Kirsten Rawlins

Great Holiday

I’ve had some tremendous holidays with my parents, but Las Vegas certainly stands out as one of the best.

Even as a child, there was so much to see and do in the city, even at the incredible hotel where we stayed – Circus Circus, which had free circus acts and a thrilling carnival.

The whole place seemed to radiate with magic and there were dazzling attractions at every turn.

I did, however, put my dad in a very awkward position when I went as a toddler pulling on the handle of one of the slot machines and, low and behold, winning.

Sirens wailed, lights flashed, change came flooding out – and over marched security.

I’m glad to report I kept the winnings.

Rubbish Holiday

When I was a child, my family and I spent weeks each year travelling around Europe in a campervan.

It saw us visit a huge range of wonderful destinations: Rome, where we saw The Pope; Paris for Disneyland; Holland for the Efteling theme park, and many more.

But on more than one occasion we had our holiday home broken into.

Sometimes we weren’t there, sometimes we were. Sometimes we woke up to find things missing from cupboards near our heads, which had been rummaged through as we slept.

That was an awful feeling – but the absolute worst was when I was awake and an intruder entered through the cab at a service station in southern France.

Not only did he see me, he was completely unperturbed – and rather than leave for fear of having been seen, he began approaching myself and my-then-toddler-aged sister, who slept beside me.

Fear completely took over. Though I tried and tried to scream, all I could muster was a breathy squeak.

Somehow this luckily woke my parents, and my dad – who was sleeping above the cab – put his foot on the ladder directly above the thief’s head. As soon as he saw that, he scarpered.

We were all fine, but my goodness was I shaken.