Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The Guardian View image in fullscreen Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The Guardian The Tim Dowling column Family Tim Dowling: my working holiday just isn’t working The weather is unrelentingly glorious, the views are amazing, but I cling to the freelancer’s habit of never quite admitting I’m on holiday
Tim Dowling Sat 22 Aug 2026 07.00 CEST Share Prefer the Guardian on Google I n the summer of 1995, I went on a family holiday to Portugal. On the first day I got a call from a UK magazine, asking if I would be interested in interviewing Meg Ryan, in three days’ time. I looked out to the pool, where my wife and my mother-in-law were pushing my infant son across the water in an inflatable ring.
“Sure,” I said. I broke the news, packed my things, flew to London and, the next day, to LA.
While no one who knows me would suggest I am overburdened by ambition, I still cling to the freelancer’s habit of never quite admitting to being on holiday: I bring work with me, I still accept assignments while I’m away, and I’m always a little cagey regarding my whereabouts.
On Friday an email arrives, asking if I’m available to go on the radio next week. I know I should admit that I’m on holiday in the country, in a remote cottage with no phone reception and ropey internet, poorly tethered to civilisation by a mile of copper wire. And so, on balance, no thanks, maybe next time.
Over the weekend guests arrive, friends on their way somewhere else. The weather is unrelentingly glorious, the views are amazing and I’m worrying about how I’m going to manage a live radio interview three days hence.
Midweek more friends arrive… but negotiating the use of the single shower proves easier than rationing the limited bandwidth “How long are you here for?” our friend asks.
“The thing about him,” my wife says, pointing at me, “is he can work anywhere.”
“I mean, I’m sort of working now,” I say, indicating the laptop in front of me.
“You’ve been online all morning,” my wife says. “When are we going out?”
“That’s the thing about slow internet,” I say. “Everything takes longer.” In truth, I am trying to download a crossword puzzle.
On Wednesday morning everyone goes to the beach while I stay with the dog. At the appointed hour I click the link the radio programme sent me. A technician comes on the line.
“Never mind, at least the line’s clear,” he says. “You’re on at 20 past, so just keep the link open until then.”
My wife and our friends return two hours later.
“The sea is unbelievable,” she says. “How was your radio thing?”
“Fine,” I say. “The link held, and Janet Street-Porter did most of the talking anyway.”
“That’s lucky,” she says. “What’s for lunch?”
More friends arrive, and there is some overlap, but 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.
“Two weeks! How amazing!” says a new arrival.
“The thing about him is, he can work anywhere,” my wife says.
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“At the moment, I can’t even send a text,” I say.
The weekend comes. Our first visitors depart. New friends arrive for Sunday lunch.
“Were you on the radio last week?” says one. “With Ja…