Seedy B&Bs, mangy motels, rancid resorts or grand five-star luxury, suggest music featuring temporary stopovers with travelling tedium to sexual liaison
Until I was about 15 or 16, hotels were a complete mystery to me, the apparent hallowed ground of the rich and privileged. Our family holidays in the early days were chaotic camping trips to north Wales, where, although the beaches were sandy, it regularly rained, and our tent leaked at every seam. It was like Mike Leigh’s Nuts in May, only madder.
Later we went posh - with bed and breakfasts - on walking trips in the Lake District. You had to be up absurdly early for a big bacony breakfast you could barely wolf down, then - out you go! Cagoules and walking boots, massive socks, rocks and muddy, but windy, breathtaking walks with flasks of tea and Kendal Mint Cake. There was no lounge or bar or swimming pool area in which to relax. We were only allowed to return towards dusk, and, after eating fish and chips for our tea, there was rarely a communal TV, and even after a quick pub trip – if there were any within staggering distance – this left not much to do but play backgammon, battleships, Mastermind or Yahtzee in what really felt like someone’s damp-dog-smelly sitting room (because it was someone’s sitting room). And hopefully because there was actually a damp dog in it.
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by Peter Kimpton via Electronic music | The Guardian
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