Then we arrive back in Gatwick to find it snowing.
Now don't get me wrong. I like snow. And this type of snow was the best kind of snow - the type that comes down in blotches, and becomes inches deep in a matter of moment - the type that you can properly compress into shapes without it sogging into slush of falling into powder.
But getting back from a holiday at ten at night, you don't want to have to walk through a snowstorm, work out which car is yours by shape, dig away the mountain of snow covering it, and then effectively tunnel your way back home, pausing every now and then to let buckets of of the stuff into the car under the guise of clearing the side window, all in a car that has been frozen by virtue of sitting in the icy long term car park for a week.
Especially not when you've been suffering from a tinge of cold all week, which doesn't seem so problematic when you're in a hot climate, and getting warm means going out of the shade for a bit, but suddenly seems a lot more problematic when you suddenly receive the moral equivalent of being dunked in an ice cold pool.
Then the snow didn't even have the decency to hang about until next morning.