For my weekly writing spot on this site, see the One-Minute Mystic, with a new meditation posted every Monday. Also see The Village, the story of Misty Longings, England's most beautiful village, posted episode by episode earlier this year.       Holiday questions     'Could we be friends this holiday?' asked the husband of his wife, as they flew to the ancient island of Rhodes. They were not the family to be sitting behind on the plane. For the first ten minutes I felt sorry for the mother; for the next three hours, I felt sorry for the father and ultimately for the two small children who were being formed by the restless dynamic between their parents. Planes are usually restrained places, like libraries, with travellers deep in books, phone games or films but in the seats in front me was a noisy soap opera of accusation and manipulation. The mum was a restless soul, who gave her disturbance to her children. Her one-year old child wouldn't go to sleep, as she kept telling anyone who would listen: 'Kids, eh?!' But we didn't need telling because a child's constant scream is an unsettling sound wherever it's heard. And how could a child sleep in such a stressful setting? Gentle holding, quiet talking and restful rubbing would have given the little person beautiful rest. But such things were not available in Row 10, centre aisle. The mother presented an hysterical need to be in contact with anyone on board about the joys or otherwise of mothering. She'd come to it late in life and like many fresh converts spoke with a pushy lopsidedness that doesn't appeal. And it was a monologue not a dialogue; it was her story or it was no story and in the down times, she harangued her husband. He responded in two ways: he either zoned-out or displayed an almost child-like desire to please his partner: 'Look how well I'm looking after the children! I've been doing it for over ten minutes now. Am I a good boy for doing that?' And then the question, when for the first time, they sat next to each other. Without children to distract or hide behind, the dad turns to the mum and says: 'Can we be friends this holiday?' and the sadness of it all filled the skies. She didn't reply; she didn't even look at him. 'What's daddy talking about?' she said to the baby. People go on holiday to 'get away from it all'. Preparation is stressful and coming back is terrible but everything's worth it. When your daily diet is cloud, tarmac and traffic, a bit of sun, sea and sand can be a grand tonic. But it's not all escape, because we don't get away from ourselves; were we to manage this, then truly, it would be the trip of a life time. Instead, we take ourselves with our sun cream, and the latter is a good deal more helpful than the former. Aware of riots in Athens, people warned me of Greek unrest. As it happened we only experienced a few strikes by taxi drivers, but it was irrelevant really. When it comes to unrest on holiday, we're very good at bringing our own. More writings © Simon Parke