I took my teenage daughter on a digital-detox holiday – and it shocked us both
Since becoming parents, screen time has gone from something my husband and I sanctimoniously manage to a necessary evil over which we have zero control. From the time our daughters were old enough to manage their own calendars, nearly every waking activity has passed through a device. Then at bedtime, podcasts and playlists take over. Strict time limits, once the rule, are now rare exceptions.
It would seem nothing short of a higher power could deliver the girls from tech’s ubiquity. So I don’t hold out hope for the government. With addictive behaviour soaring alongside screen time, the House of Commons’s education committee has repeatedly urged MPs to crack down on mobiles in schools, ban smartphones for under-16s and raise the threshold for signing onto social media to 16.
Seeing an opportunity for a social experiment, my editor suggested I live this dystopian existence with my own teenagers. Not for long. Just, say, a few nights on the Aegean without –
Sold, in the name of research.
I opened with “Greece”, adding “digital detox” through gritted teeth. That the girls leapt at it was the first shock. The second? As our departure neared, I was the one freaking out. The assignment had forced me to monitor my own phone addiction: the email refresh, WhatsApp, step-counts, word games, GPS. When daughter no.2 had to pull out for a school excursion, I quietly envied her. To part with my phone even for four days felt, conversely, like a burden.
Weeks later, remaining teenager Lola and I rolled two suitcases filled with long-neglected books into Porto Sani, a family-friendly all-suite Greek resort, and handed over our phones at reception. In our room, the TV had been dismantled. We scanned for power outlets out of habit (Lola was thrilled to find a snore-proof wall divided her bed in the lounge from mine in the principal bedroom). We squealed at the massive marble shower and the walls of glass that opened onto the wraparound terrace. It killed us that we couldn’t snap photos. Posting and boasting would have to wait.
Bikinis donned, we installed ourselves by one of several near-empty pools, ordered iced lattes and succumbed to the unplugged vibe. Time became immaterial. Slipping into the pool after a nap, I called out to a lifeguard and learned it was nearly 7pm. I would’ve guessed 4.
We smartened up for dinner at a quaint taverna on the resort’s small marina. But as I sipped a glass of Corinthian red, I began to doubt our progress. Unable to watch Tiktok videos, Lola began recounting them in detail, then explained the concept of Snapstreaks – these days offline would surely jeopardise her streak. I, meanwhile, mentally composed an email and ran down next week’s diary.
From her bed later, Lola recounted the most recent chapter in her book while I reread the same sentence 12 times. Poor thing: after I dropped off, she stayed up reading half the night. “I couldn’t sleep,” she moaned in the morning. “At least when I’m on my phone my eyes get tired.” Chalk one up for blue light.
I’m not surprised we struggled to decompress. Neither of us is particularly good at “holidays”, even worse at sitting alone with our thoughts. Devoted to structure, we’ve subsumed technology into our routines for better and for worse. Sometimes switching on helps us switch off.
I wish I could be a better role model. I wish we all could. For every child at Porto Sani basking in the glow of a device was a parent gripping a phone. According to a study undertaken by British Airways and YouGov, some 47 per cent of Brits check work emails while on holiday; 36 per cent respond. Half don’t even take their full annual leave. It’s why countless off-grid hotels push tech-free stays, and why British Airways launched its Take Your Holiday Seriously campaign. I’m happy to report Lola and I were taking this holiday very seriously indeed.
Boredom is meant to be good for kids. But when it set in on our third day, Lola seemed annoyed, then panicked. Three books down, she started to pace. She was “over” the beach, too hot for cycling. Yoga elicited a resounding no. Desperate for a diversion, she agreed to start the book I’d just finished. She was no longer reading for pleasure but rather survival.
Eventually we began to feel something resembling sympathy for those unfortunate email-tethered Brits. During a late breakfast, Lola remarked on the hordes of staff drifting about in their ecru linen uniforms – so much calmer than the overstretched servers we’re used to. We noticed the neutral-coloured loungers and plaster walls, declaring them “good beige”.
Other people’s children, traipsing back from the ice-cream bar coated in chocolate, struck us as charming. Our senses heightened. The sparrows bathing in the pool sounded euphoric; their breasts, reflecting the blue of the water as they skimmed the surface, looked electric.
On our last evening, as we sipped elaborate mocktails and gazed toward Mount Olympus from a white-stucco terrace, I delighted at what excellent company my daughter was, how fun and funny despite having only her old lady as a sounding board. I asked her how we might integrate this cleanse into our routine. But she was dubious. She was glad we’d done it, but eventually she’d have to research her next project, check in with friends, set an alarm. The call of the screen is relentless.
Still, when we landed back in London and I took her phone out of my carry-on, she turned it down.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
British Airways Holidays offers seven nights, at the 5* Porto Sani from £1589pp, full board, including return flights from London Gatwick.
