Speaking in family friendly tongues - by Dea Birkett

It seems to me that some foreign languages are more family friendly than others. I don’t mean in their sentiment, but in their ability to be picked up easily by anyone, of any age. I’ve been convinced of this because I’m writing from Aruba, where the language is Papiamento – the most family friendly tongue I’ve come across.

I’d never heard of Aruba, and definitely not of the island’s mother tongue, until now. We were brought here by First Choice, one of the very few British holiday companies who serve this small island in the Caribbean, only 20 miles off the coast of Venezuela. Aruba has strong ties with Holland, so the official language is Dutch. But nearly everyone speaks Papiamento at home, a bouillabaisse of Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch and English, which is said as it’s written and in which even a shopping list sounds like a poem. Unlike French or Spanish, there's no gender words to struggle with. And to emphasis something, you just say it twice. Poco poco is slow; blauw blauw is completely blue. It’s the only language in which my kids have been able to pick up several phrases in just a few days. Very good, for example, is Hopi bon. Imagine what fun the eight-year-old twins have saying that, over and over and over again.

I’m delighted. I make a huge thing about my kids doing their Thankyous (Masha danki) in the language of the place we’re on holiday. I know it sometimes makes me look foolish, as usually the shopkeeper or waiter or guide speak right back to us in flawless English. But I have this idea that it’s somehow more respectful to master a few foreign words. Usually with my kids that’s a real struggle. Like me, they’re not natural linguists. But with Papiamento, its rhythm makes them want to say Good Morning (Bon dia) and Goodbye (Ayo) with far more courtesy and frequency than they would at home. I never thought of a language as an attraction – something to consider when deciding what destination to chose for a family holiday – but now I think it could be. And my teenager paid Papiamento the ultimate compliment. She’s put it as her status on Facebook.

Teenager at the Edinburgh Fringe - by Dea Birkett

Teenagers are so tricksy. There’s plenty of events and activities for kids, and more for grown ups. But ‘kids’ is usually defined as up to 12 years old. And grown ups from 18 onwards, although, as a mother of a 16 year old, that does seem rather optimistic. So what happens to all the 13 to 17 year olds who fall into the chasm between youth and maturity? What are they supposed to do on holiday?

We’ve just faced this at the Edinburgh festivals. There’s some fantastic shows for kids, Lighter Than Air by Circo Ridiculoso particularly recommended (www.circoriduculoso.com). But try suggesting to my 16 year old that she’d enjoy Giraffes Can’t Dance because of the puppets, and she snorts in a way only a teenager can. But when I offer to take her to shows that I’d enjoy, like a political play about the Middle East, she starts getting sniffy all over again, as if she had a permanent head cold. Why would she want to go to that adult rubbish?

I say Thank God we stayed at the Smart City Hostel, where each night similarly nasally challenged teenagers gathered around the pool table in the basement bar, avoiding their parents. ‘Thank God,’ snorted my teenager on spotting the pack. ‘Teenagers! Normal people.’

And my initial worries that she’d spend all day in her bunk bed listening to obscene songs on her iPod while I toured the festival’s cultural highlights was just maternal fretting. The Fringe turned out to be fabulous for a 16 year old, just because there’s so much on offer they’re bound to find something to suit their very particular tastes. My teenager loved The Assassination of Paris Hilton, played entirely in the ladies toilets in the Assembly Rooms and using language she’s unfortunately very familiar with. She’s been wearing her ‘I Killed Paris’ t-shirt with pride ever since.

There’s also plenty of dance, and I’ve found that teenagers enjoy most things with lots of movement in them. At least mine swayed to Me Mobile/Evolution. Once you get over the pretentious title (this is the Edinburgh Fringe, after all), it’s a wonderful piece where a young woman called Claire Cunningham dances on and with her crutches – hundreds of them. She even does Singing in the Rain, replacing Gene Kelly’s twirling umbrella with a spinning crutch.

As far as multi-generational short breaks go, I don’t think there’s much to beat the Fringe. We even took granny.

Cold Comfort - by Dea Birkett

Just a couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how we were in pursuit of the sun. Well, now we've found it, the kids have turned all chilly on me. Now they're insisting the next place we go to isn't only cool - in every sense of the word - but absolutely freezing.

When I wrote before, I said that holidays had to be hot. I've already changed my mind. I now believe that they can be either hot or cold, but nothing in between. The Grove hotel, with a summertime sandy beach in the middle of Hertfordshire, complete with deck chairs and ice cream cart, found this out long ago. Not only do they have an artificial beach in August, in December they guaranteed a white Christmas, Narnia style, with the reception covered in a blanket of fake flakes.

My kids love it there. But why do they insist on blowing hot or cold? I think it's to do with dressing up. They like - as we all do - to wear different clothes when we're on holiday. And the best excuse for doing so is because it's far fresher or far warmer than at home.

Clothes, of course, maketh the man, woman and child. I know my strappy summer dresses come out the moment we leave Britain behind for sunnier regions. Away, I wear outrageous outfits I'd never normally wear. I feel like a different woman. And I presume the kids feel different, too. At least they dress very differently. My teenager doesn't pack a single hoodie in her suitcase, although she wouldn't be seen dead without one on in the streets around her own house. Of course, I think she looks far lovelier in her holiday attire.

So hot or cold - skimpy or salupettes - anything but jeans and T-shirt weather will suit us.

Girls will be Boys - on holiday, by Dea Birkett

We spent the weekend doing the Dangerous Book for Boys trail in a forest on Trentham estate, in Staffordshire near Stoke-on-Trent, with...... a girl! Well, a boy as well. The eight-year-old twins are a mixed bunch; one male, one female. I've always regarded their rearing as a social experiment on the 'Nature or Nurture?' debate. If I called my boy River 'pretty' and my girl Savanna 'handsome', would it make a difference? Or is feminine hard-wired, made up with sugar and spice from birth? And masculine determined by tetesterone?

Holidays, however, have never presented the same opportunities for me to become an amateur professor of gender studies. We go away, we usually go swimming, we all do about the same sorts of things. I've noticed that, if horse riding happens to be on offer, it's usually Savanna who takes it up the most enthusiastically. What is it with small girls and ponies?

So an experience modelled on the Dangerous Book for Boys, which no self-respecting eight-year-old girl would be seen turning a single page of, presented a great opportunity for me to continue my studies on holiday, not just at home. Our forest leader Christian Fox was like a Ray Mears for kids, with camoflauge pants and a very, very soft voice, encouraging us to commune with nature. First, he showed us how to build a shelter, to protect us from the wind and rain. 'And the bears?' asked Savanna. 'No, no bears in Staffordshire,' said Christian gently. Savanna was clearly disappointed. River was relieved.

River sent Savanna off to gather the sticks to build the shelter's skeleton, displaying no desire to delve any deeper into the wood. When she returned with big bundles, it was River who measured them up against each other, to see if they were the correct length, before sending Savanna back out to gather dried grass for the roof. I seemed to vaguely remember, from my Geography GCSE, that women were the gatherers in primitive societies and - perhaps - on Dangerous Book for Boys weekends.

Once our twig and grass wigwam was built, we had to strike up a fire to keep us warm. This involved some imagination. It was a very hot summer afternoon in Staffordshire, and none of us were chilly. Christian provided the flint and warned us sternly, 'Don't try this at home.' Savanna took hold of the flat stone like a born cavewoman, lighting the dried birch bark on the first go.

We found North by checking the moss on the tree trunks, picked nettles without stinging ourselves to cook for supper later, and learnt how to wield an axe. Or rather, Savanna did. By that time, River was exhausted and sat down in the entrance of the shelter, staring calmly at the rustling trees.

A weekend for boys has convinced me that there's no such thing. I'm signing Savanna up for a football break next.