Reader, it’s important to tell you that I’ve never been to Greece in my life. Not once. But I might be going, for the very first time, in the spring. And so, for the last week or so, all my dreams have featured fresh fish cooked to flaky perfection, a swimming pool into which I shall venture no deeper than my waist (I can’t swim), and the heat of the sun that not even the climate crisis can make happen in the UK in April.

I don’t come with a history of exotic foreign holidays. Travelling abroad fell under the umbrella of familial duty: “Going Home”, AKA a brief return to the place where my parents were born (and coincidentally more and more foreign to them the longer they lived in the UK) in order to keep the ties of kinship going and remind us of our roots. I should say we didn’t do idyllic UK-based holidays either. I read about caravans in Enid Blyton books and watched Vaseline-lensed ads for CenterParcs and knew neither was in my immediate future. I made peace with it. We just weren’t a “going on holiday” type of family. It didn’t bother me. I harbour no resentment, and honestly, feel largely equanimous when I consider this “gap” in my life experience.

But this potential Greece trip? It’s been on the back burner of my mind for years. A low-level, always-running app on my personal CPU, taking up very little energy but alive and constant. Almost as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I had a full-fledged fantasy. Picture it: somewhere in Europe 2027. A villa, a group of friends, two weeks of deep chats, delicious local cuisine, reading books and afternoon swims (remember, I can’t even swim). Our children? I dunno, somewhere safe and/or soundly asleep. My mind? Unencumbered, dreaming up the outline of my next play. My body? Relaxed but strengthened by the daily yoga session that also magically happens shortly after every sunrise. Before you ask, yes, I can hear myself. I know I sound insane. And I’m fine with it!

My friend, newly a mother of two also, is the planner of this Greece trip. She sees the vision, works at the same foolish bank of romantic illusion where I have my account. But she’s not just a dreamer. She’s done solid, boots-on-the-ground research. She’s checking dates, curating the invite list: who likes cooking? Whose vibe matches our knackered-but-trying-to-be-a-good-friend situation? How many childfree adults can we ethically invite until we have the optimal number of eyes to cover all the children who’ll be around? She’s checking availability, organising the group chat, working to make my dreams a reality. I could kiss her. And perhaps in Crete, with the permission of all affected parties, I shall.

More than the treat of a fortnight somewhere far away and yet in the company of old, dear friends, what I’m feeling most acutely is the pleasure of a promise. Having something to look forward to? A balm in the best of times. But especially so right now. I am re-emerging from beneath the cloud of the fourth (and fifth!) trimester. I read – and finished – a book the other week. I worked out with a kettlebell at some point in the past month. I went to a gig! Things are feeling viable again.

Outside of my little sphere, having something pleasurable on the horizon feels like a magic spell. There is a grimness to reading headlines in the morning that can’t be shaken off. Going on holiday clearly won’t solve these problems but my Cretan dreams give my soul small moments of uncomplicated anticipatory glee that make life worth living despite the horrors of near and far. Spring will come again, as it always does. The human race trudges on.

Perhaps I feel my most human when I am anticipating. Inside of that anticipation is the incredible knowledge that while everything is possible, sometimes I get to imagine only delightful things. It’s an excellent exercise. Like I said, a magic spell.

So here goes: I might be going to Crete with my children. What if we have an amazing time? What if this is the beginning of a new family tradition? What if the baby takes his first steps there? Could I master a couple of new recipes with new ingredients before we return home? Will 2027 be the year I start and finish Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan quartet? In Crete, anything could happen.