We mothers of grown-up daughters tend to view them with a mixture of love, exasperation, irritation and awe. Plus a fair degree of terror. I've always thought it a great loss to this country, for example, that Emma, my daughter, is not home secretary, head of Scotland Yard and the forensic expert on Silent Witness. In anyone's book we are not ideal travel companions. Let us count the ways: I like flying first class, preferably British Airways, which is not much different from spending a day in intensive care at the London Clinic. There is a particular bonus at Gatwick, where Bob from special services always takes me to the aircraft last and does so in his trusty little white car. This is not only hassle-free but has the added advantage of pissing off the rest of the passengers at the front of the plane. Believe me, I've done my time travelling the world in cramped conditions and carrying my own luggage. Now my leisure is summers in the south of France or the Hamptons, walking in Connemara, and year-round shopping in Manhattan and Paris.
Emma, on the other hand, sees anywhere other than the back of the plane as an unnecessary extravagance. She commutes zoo class between London and New York with two small babies without blinking. She also has an unhealthy appetite for dangerous sports. She hunts, kayaks, skydives, leaps off cliffs to paraglide with eagles and so on. Last year she crossed the world presenting a travel series for Channel 5 called Heaven On Earth. The only small but satisfying chink in her otherwise uncompromising position of woman of the people was to note that in almost all locations she was wearing outfits borrowed from her mother.
And so to our trip, organised to reflect our differences and in a country well off my radar: Sri Lanka. First at a "luxury spa", then somewhere unpromisingly called the Mud House.
Typically, I arrive at Gatwick at exactly the hour Emma books her car to leave for the airport. Her carry-on luggage is a wheelie I threw out a decade ago. Although throwing out in our family is a loose term since Emma's need to go through waste bins and retrieve half the contents is legendary. I've never flown Emirates before, but I'd concede that business class is hardly a burden. Except to say in first class it's only ever a delight for the cabin crew to bring you your on-board luggage as often as you wish. In business, an ungracious daughter huffs and puffs, making heavy weather of hauling down my suitcase a couple of times after we're airborne.
Whatever class of transport, no woman is entirely sane following more than 14 hours of travel, including a change at Dubai. By Colombo, the Sri Lankan capital, once we're through immigration, have dodged the dozens of locals inexplicably trying to sell us washing machines and have collected our luggage, I'm well past my best. In the circumstances, it's unhelpful of Emma to stand behind me barking orders while I take money from the ATM. The public spat that follows is made worse by our driver placing a ridiculous garland of bright flowers around my neck as a greeting.
The journey south to Wadduwa through the morning rush hour is foul. Think three hours of dust, potholes, crazy traffic, endless beeping of horns and no obvious signs of a highway code.
The Reef Villa & Spa, run by Brendan and Bernadette, is undoubtedly charming. Sadly, the weather falters between rain, overcast skies and bursts of sunshine. Even more distressing, the Guardian had decided that one room with a small double bed, albeit in the hotel's finest suite, would suffice. Brendan sweetly offers to install a second four-poster. I suggest a child's bed including mini mosquito net will be fine for Emma. Do you think I ever hear the end of this? Again, it is hardly Brendan's fault that the solar panelling directly above Emma's cot comes to grief and she spends two days lying next to a blue plastic bucket.
The Reef's spa turns out to be one small Sri Lankan, offering massage and manicures – as long as I don't want colour. He's not very good at colour, he says. We try yoga with a beautifully calm instructor whose omming is so deep that I keep opening an eye to check the noise is her and not the hooting of a train on the track outside. That's the point about Sri Lanka – outside is another land of noise, badly beaten paths and rotting debris. In contrast, the Reef, with only seven bedrooms, is all about stillness. Not one of my hobbies. The rest of the guests are mainly quietly spoken, middle-aged Brits dressed much as I imagine Nigel Farage and his Ukip supporters might in a tropical climate. There's nothing to do except chill and read. Oh, and eat. Unfortunately, I like only plain food. I loathe Thai food, Indian food, Vietnamese food – in fact, anything Asian and spicy. The smell of coriander makes me throw up. So the daughter airily ordering a Sri Lankan curry breakfast can reasonably be described as mother abuse.
There's the nub of it. Grown-up daughters, once they have babies, cease to distinguish between their small charges and their mother. "Focus, look down, down, down. Now see the bolt," she instructs one afternoon when I fail to open a door quickly enough. At least the mosquitoes – an accepted part of life in this country – suffer even worse than me under Emma's watch. In fact, should you be considering a trip to Sri Lanka, now is a good time since, thanks to Emma's murder mission, the population has considerably decreased in the last month. It's the mosquitoes that decide for us that a visit to the Mud House, sleeping outside with no electricity, is beyond our skill sets. Instead, I book us into one of the five-star hotels in the capital, Cinnamon Lakeside, where we can busy ourselves in the seven restaurants, the Balinese spa, the beauty salon and the navy blue-bottomed outdoor pool. But no. Emma insists we explore in a tuk-tuk taxi, a sewing machine with a hood and no visible signs of protection. The rides are nothing short of terrifying. Tuk-tuk drivers can be bargained down, never have any change and the messing around in the scorching heat in order to find the right money is ridiculous given the line of air-conditioned limos waiting to be hired outside the hotel.
Shopping with Emma is always an endurance test. Choosing a cabbage takes her a fortnight. We're hours in an admittedly wonderful emporium called Barefoot, an oasis along the main Galle Road, while she dithers and changes her mind. In another too-long outing to a mall in the Old Dutch Hospital, our driver narrowly misses a dog, which already has only three legs.
On our final night, again in a perilous tuk-tuk, we make it to the Liberty cinema to see the new Tom Cruise movie. Sri Lankan cinemas are small and the start time very approximate. Actually, the whole experience is not dissimilar to a drive in a tuk-tuk, since the audience tends to come and go randomly, with the ones behind yanking our seats back and forth to make their exit. Foolishly, a woman nearby takes a telephone call. Inspector Emma naturally turns and delivers a lecture on good manners. The woman, duly shamed, takes herself off, yanking my seat another half-dozen times between coming and going.
Did we enjoy our trip? Do I mind that Emma thinks I urghh and arrgh at every corner? Does it matter that she treats me like a child? And that, while her trusty striped holiday bag manages to contain every possible emergency item – fountain pen, ink cartridges, sewing kit, mosquito deterrent, notebook, plastic spoon, chopsticks, sugar, salt, pepper, paper clips, headache pills, rotting food – these are only grudgingly handed out? Like my grandsons, I am allowed only half a paper tissue at a time. Do I despair, when I've spoken sharply to a British businessman thoughtlessly standing in our way as we struggle to our row on the flight home and she feels the need to apologise? "I'm just here to say sorry after she's been rude. It's a full-time job."
Yes, to the first question. No, of course, to the rest. She makes me roar with laughter. I adore her company. Every mother and daughter should make time for a trip together. It's good for the soul.
How was it for you? Emma Wilson
Travelling with my mother is not for the faint-hearted. As far as she's concerned, being in business class with a glass of champagne before takeoff and a fluffy white mattress that reclines to a bed is slumming it. Not me. I've two babies, 17 months apart. I barely pee alone. Fourteen hours trapped in these conditions is utter bliss.
We are greeted at Colombo with garlands of orchids. We're not very appreciative – too busy trying to negotiate the ATM. Mrs Don't-talk-to-me-I'm-concentrating manages to extract 400 rupees, roughly two quid.
We motor down the south-west coast to the sanctuary of Reef Villa. This is low-key to the nth degree. Colonial suites surrounded by tranquil ponds are a throwback to the days of Ceylon. There's a pink giant gourami fish called Rosemary, but she's pretty darned quiet. An iguana strolls across the garden, the equivalent of rush hour.
I've been filmed in a cage with great white sharks, but being confined in a suite with my mother is a more daunting prospect. Six days of rain doesn't help. There's no chance she'll be looking at temples or tea tasting – not unless Coco Chanel serves the Pekoe. This trip will require a woman who doesn't do "downtime" to embrace nothingness; sitting, reading and, of course, the spa. But by day three she's spa'd out. The young lad makes a fatal error. "When did you last have a facial? Your skin is very dry," he says. "No, it's not. Just get on with it." Similar charm is unleashed on the yoga instructor. "I'm old. Very, very old," she snaps, as if it's the girl's fault. It's a 90-minute session of eye exercises and neck stretches. No threat of breaking into a sweat. She bails on the second session. I'm given a rigorous workout. It's painful to laugh for the rest of the stay.
In the mornings, we sip coffee on her balcony. "Did you know these mosquito bands you bought are for children?" No, but I do find she's a child at times. "Make that bird go away." "I can't open my water bottle." "Emma, tell the man to leave me alone." "Am I in the shade?" You'd think a woman who's travelled through China with Thatcher and Cuba with Castro would know if she was in the sun.
The food is exceptional and the Sinhalese people are beyond gracious and gentle. I slowly work my way through the cocktail list, but I can't keep up with her Diet Coke habit. At dinner there's a young London spark who's yet to put down his iPhone. His redheaded girlfriend watches him or reads To Kill A Mocking Bird. He's lucky. We carrot-tops debate whether we'd stab him with a fork or throw the mobile in the pool.
We play Scrabble. It's utterly humiliating – 46 on a triple, using all letters: another 50 points. Come on! We're both wired to win. At least I can thrash her at table tennis.
In Wadduwa, the market isn't geared to outsiders. I buy an apple cutter, Tigger mugs, jigsaws and a child's cricket bat: total £2.95. Have I mentioned my cot has been displaced by a blue bucket? I might be over 40, but this arrangement makes me feel like Edie from Grey Gardens.
"If you've such a difficult relationship, why go away together?" Brendan asks, missing the nuance. Our relationship isn't difficult. She is difficult. We're as loving as any mother and daughter, with occasional sparks. She calls me "tricky". I find this rich. She hates spicy, loathes coriander – we're in her eating hell. In Colombo, where she eats chocolates for breakfast, cake for lunch and pastries for supper, I buy her a bag of oranges. She rolls her eyes and beelines for the mini-bar nibbles.
I explore Fose market alone. There's a limit to what I can make her endure. Even so, I suspect my mother secretly enjoys the buzz of street life. "Go slower, Mr Tuk-Tuk!" This, from a woman who lost her licence speeding.
My Mary Poppins bag is a constant source of ridicule. (Babies have sanctioned my squirrelling ways – you never know when you may need half an avocado, a toothbrush, or clean socks.) But she has no qualms asking for a needle and thread, pen, mosquito wipe, map, measuring tape or water. And that's just the stuff she knows about.
Cue shopping. We empty Barefoot. I manage to spend more than her, which is impressive. She needs to sit down with an espresso and carrot cake to recover. Wild rabbits do not breed tame ones.
• Emma Wilson's trip was provided by Experience Travel Group and Emirates Airlines; Anne Robinson covered the cost of her trip. Experience Travel Group offers tailor-made holidays in Sri Lanka and south-east Asia. A week at the Reef Villa, including return flights and transport, starts from £1,999pp. Emirates flies daily to Sri Lanka from London Heathrow, London Gatwick, Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow and Newcastle. Prices start from £533pp from London Gatwick.
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