It seems that within seconds of shoving the last of the Christmas decorations into the attic everyone is talking about holidays.

My elder daughter and her family have already planned their summer break, and are excitedly talking about getting to the chosen destination in Bordeaux, a considerable distance from where they live in Germany.

They were running through the options of transporting two adults and two children several hundred miles. Flying direct was probably quicker but very expensive. The train was less expensive but involved lots of changes. Flying to the UK and then onwards was fairly complicated, and so was my son-in-law's carefully worked out scheme which seemed to involve trains, boats and cars in equal measure.

They finally thought that driving straight through, which would take at least ten hours, and which neither saw as a problem, was the easiest.

It would be, of course, if you could guarantee being able to drive straight through at a steady pace without stopping, not get held up in any traffic whatsoever and not hear a peep out of the two small persons in the back. That is the best case scenario and I don't have to remind anyone who has ever travelled for more than one hour with two small children that it rarely happens. Children, like good wine, don't travel well, but at least wine doesn't ask every 500 yards ' are we there yet?' when you still have 400 miles to go.

Children also don't fit into their parents idea of an idyllic holiday. I speak as one who knows.

Having been bitten by the Enid Blyton Famous Five bug as a child I always dreamed of those long lazy days in the sun with lots of jolly adventures in boats and romping on golden sands stopping only to eat delicious repasts.

I never got a Famous Five holiday. We used to go to a very stuffy hotel in the Isle of Wight, and spent our holidays on a deck chair ridden black beach and it always rained. Still, I could do better for my own children. Which is why I booked a jolly super week on a houseboat in the middle of an estuary which sounded like fun, fun, fun.

Suffice to say that if you have never tried to transfer three children, a bad tempered Pekinese and a rapidly turning bad tempered husband from a small motor boat into an even smaller dinghy in the middle of Salcombe harbour in gale force wind and rain then you haven't experienced holiday hell. To say nothing of having to row the dog to the shore every time it wanted to answer a call of nature, which it usually didn't. We may have been five but we certainly weren't jolly by the time we went home a day early, minus one suitcase which fell overboard and a lot of explaining to do to the owner about a missing rowing boat.

We tried the Lake District the next year, where it rained non-stop for ten days and they all agreed that Wordsworth's cottage was a dump and anyway where were the daffodils?

I had to finally admit that young children really don't like an adult idea of holidays very much. They couldn't care less about views, sightseeing, culture, historic buildings or ancient ruins. So don't bother with the Valley of the Kings unless you can guarantee digging out the odd Mummy or two .

Our saviour was finding Looe, which offered everything youngsters love about holidays. A good beach with rocks, ice cream within easy reach, an interesting fish quay, lots of gift shops including a joke shop, fish and chips round every corner and an amusement arcade or two. Plus boat trips, fishing and, if they managed to escape my eye, the odd cliff to climb. No, I'm not being paid by Looe Town Council to do a PR job, I could say the same about many other seaside towns, both home and abroad. The lesson learned was that when you are parents you have to put aside your yearnings to explore the wonders of the world and settle for sandy hard boiled eggs and jam jars full of crabs. It goes with the job.

There is still the journey to the destination however, and as we know, children don't like a long trip. Planes are fine for an hour or two but the interest palls once they have read the emergency instructions and tried to inflate lifejackets. Boats, trains and coaches are too restricting.

As for the car, there are a few things you must accept before you set off into the sunrise with the back seat packed with excited little ones ready for their hols.

One always says they feel sick but never is. One is sick suddenly over the one next to them with no warning. The dog is sick on everyone. Travel games always cause huge rows and usually get broken within six miles.

One child always wants to go to the lavatory when you are in the middle of negotiating a six lane roundabout in the rush hour and can't wait even two minutes.

Nobody ever wants to go to the lavatory when you stop at a deserted service station but does when you have got back on the motorway and it's 37 miles to the next one.

You either have three children who all want to sit in the middle or three who don't ever want to. Ditto open versus closed windows. You have to expect a lot of screeching, punching and kicking behind you, and this before you even leave the driveway of your house. And any 'let's look out of the window' game you invent will inevitably lead to accusations of cheating or worse still a fully fledged fist fight. You must also realise that even if you contain it in a fully lockable lead flask any drink you provide will eventually be spilled.

You must learn to expect one child to say, after 120 miles, 'did you pick up my pink rucksack off the top of the oil tank where I put it when I went back to get my purse?', while another will casually inform you 220 miles into the journey that she can only find one shoe but she knew she had two when you stopped 400 yards from the house to go back for her sister's coat and even though she was told to stay in the car she got out.

And so it will go on. But oh the joy as they ask, for the nine thousandth time, 'are we there yet', and you can say yes, we are.

All you have to do now is gear yourself up for the journey back.