Tim Dowling's family holiday in a remote cottage is disrupted by his freelancer's habit of never quite admitting he's on holiday. He brings work, accepts assignments, and stays cagey about his whereabouts, even when the weather is glorious and the views are amazing.
A radio commitment amid holiday plans
On Friday, an email arrives asking if he's available to go on the radio next week. Despite knowing he should admit he's on holiday in a remote cottage with no phone reception and ropey internet, he types back: “I can do it.”
Over the weekend, friends arrive. His wife tells them, “The thing about him is he can work anywhere.” Dowling, indicating his laptop, says, “I mean, I'm sort of working now.” In truth, he is trying to download a crossword puzzle.
The interview and the fallen tree
On Wednesday morning, everyone goes to the beach while Dowling stays with the dog. At the appointed hour, he clicks the link the radio programme sent. A technician says, “You sound weird,” but adds, “Never mind, at least the line's clear.” He is on at 20 past.
His wife and friends return two hours later. “The sea is unbelievable,” she says. “How was your radio thing?” “Fine,” he says. “The link held, and Janet Street-Porter did most of the talking anyway.”
More friends arrive, and negotiating the use of the single shower proves easier than rationing the limited bandwidth. Even when people aren't using their phones, their phones are using the internet.
Cut off from civilisation
At six, they take a car to the beach, dog included. The tide is out, the sea is warm, and the phone signal is amazing. Within the hour, they're driving back down the long track. Dowling has sand in his hair, salt on his skin, and a wet dog on his lap. His email inbox is up to date.
His wife hits the brakes suddenly. Ahead, a tree is lying across the track. “While we were out,” she says. “We could have been under it.” They climb over the tree and walk down to the cottage. A trip back to the car confirms the tree took the phone line down with it. “No internet,” his wife says. “Trapped like rats,” Dowling says. “How am I going to work?” he asks. “I'll have to walk half a mile just to get a signal!”
First thing Monday morning, trudging uphill through a flock of sheep with his laptop held open, he thinks: she's right; he used to do this a lot.
