A week in the Dolomites with my dad

Strudel, schnitzel and realising my parents aren't invincible

Planning a holiday with my dad goes like this: he chooses a long-distance trail, I tell him when I’m free, then he spends every evening for approximately six months poring over the guidebook (specifically during the hours between him finishing watering the plants and a nine o’ clock TV drama starting). He fills a notebook with mile maths working out the best way to divide the stages, he scours reviews to find out which accommodation has bed bugs and he plans our public transport journeys to either end. He gets tangled up in long chains of Google Translated emails with mountain refuges, and we just keep our fingers crossed there will be beds with our names on when we arrive.

Approximately 95% of phone calls from him during this period begin with, “I’ve been looking at the book…” and I often wonder if he likes planning these trips more than he enjoys going on them. I mostly leave him to it, with my role beginning just before departure when I do the online check-in, download the GPX route…