We have already started planning next year’s trip. A different location, new books to read, more stories to tell. But the essence will remain the same: time carved out, sacred and silly, for the women who make life lighter. Summer holidays with the ladies are never just vacations. They are reunions with the parts of ourselves we sometimes forget we have—and reminders that some memories are meant to be held, retold, and cherished, long after the last grain of sand has been shaken from the beach bag.
We had rented a small house near the coast, and each morning, the rhythm was unhurried. Someone would make tea and sit on the porch to watch the fog lift. Another would head out for an early walk along the shore, returning with sea glass and sandy feet. We didn’t need to fill every silence. That, perhaps, was the deepest gift of traveling with women who truly know you: the comfort of quiet.
From the moment we piled into the car—overpacked suitcases threatening to burst, snacks spilling across the back seat, and a playlist that spanned four decades of guilty pleasures—the tone was set. There was no rush. We took the scenic route, stopping at a roadside farm stand for fresh peaches, pulling over for an impromptu photo shoot in a field of wildflowers, and dissolving into giggles when the GPS led us to a “shortcut” that turned into a gravelly adventure. One of the ladies, always the practical one, had printed maps “just in case.” Another had packed a small emergency kit that included everything from bandages to glitter nail polish. “Priorities,” she declared, and we all toasted her with iced coffee.