It was Friday 5pm, and I had just driven home from work on a dark stormy night, slowly winding my way down the dimly lit streets peering through the rampant windscreen wipers to see where I was going. Running for my house, I could hear the electricity lines above crackling as rain hit them. I opened the soaking wooden gate, dodged the huge puddle beneath it on the slippery stone pathway and dashed inside the house. It was Yorkshire, England, the middle of winter early 1996. The old stone cottage was welcoming. Glowing embers burned brightly in the ornate living room fireplace, radiating warmth and coziness throughout the whole house, roast beef sizzled in the oven, and the smell of roast potatoes and onion gravy made my mouth water. The day's troubles subsided as thoughts of a soft comfortable sofa and a full stomach filled my mind, yet I still found myself depressed. The cold weather, dark nights and work issues were seriously giving me the blues, and no amount of roast beef was going to cure it. 'I need a holiday', I thought.
             A phone call to a good friend, Rob, found him in much the same mood. We were discussing Manda, the sales director at work; or Man-Dog, as we all called her. 280lbs of blubbering ginger mess, and the temperament to put even Santa Claus in a bad mood. She had been nagging everyone to death, blaming everyone but herself for the failure of her sales plans. Rob agreed that we both needed a break, and thought that a holiday was a brilliant idea. Both of us were due some time off work, having missed most of the Christmas festivities working for the dragon.
             'So, what do you want to do on holiday then?' I asked.
             'I guess all you really need is a beach, beer and nightlife, isn't it?' Rob replied.
             I frowned and sighed deeply - I hated those types of holidays. I couldn't stand to spend loads of money travelling, only to do things that you could do ...