There are many mysteries in life.
Stonehenge.

The Bermuda Triangle.

Why hotel pillows are either made of concrete or optimism.

And then there is my holiday stomach.

A mystery so baffling that even now, safely home, I am not entirely sure what happened.

The story began before we had even unpacked.

Shortly after arriving in Flamborough, my stomach started complaining.

Not urgently.

Just enough to make its presence known.

A quiet little grumble that suggested all was not entirely well in the Department of Digestion.

Naturally, I assumed the worst.
As anxious people do.

Perhaps it was illness.
Perhaps it was a stomach ulcer.

Perhaps I was about to spend the holiday becoming intimately familiar with the caravan bathroom.

Instead, something far stranger happened.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

My stomach sat there.

Full.

Silent.

Suspiciously calm.

I continued eating.
And eating.
And eating.

By all known laws of nature, something should have happened.

Yet for two entire days I barely farted.

This was deeply concerning.

I am not a person known for digestive restraint.

Under normal circumstances I produce enough wind to qualify as a renewable energy source.

The silence was unnatural.

By Wednesday, however, the stomach pain had vanished.

The mystery remained.

Where had it gone?
What was it doing?
What exactly was my digestive system planning?

The answer became apparent towards the end of the week.

It had been planning a dramatic exit strategy.

By Friday, all I wanted to do was go home and have a proper poo.

The journey home only strengthened this ambition.

Then, once safely back in Yorkshire and reunited with familiar surroundings, my digestive system resumed normal service.

With enthusiasm.

Suddenly there were farts.
Many farts.

The sort of farts that reassure you everything is operational again.

The sort that make shoppers in Bridlington subtly change direction.

The sort that remind you nature is healing.

My current working theory is that my nervous system temporarily kidnapped my digestive tract.

After all, it had been a significant week.

New places.
New routines.
Excitement.
Anxiety.
Puffins.
Thunderstorms.
Missed buses.
An enormous amount of anticipation.

My stomach may simply have decided it had more important things to do than digestion.

Then there was the water.

Now, I am not claiming East Yorkshire water is responsible.

I am merely observing that it tasted entirely different to the glorious liquid perfection flowing through my taps at home.

The evidence speaks for itself.

One week away.
One confused digestive system.

An immediate improvement upon returning to civilisation.

Coincidence?
Perhaps.

Finally, there was the milkshake incident.
A decision so spectacularly poor that future historians may study it.

After years of carefully limiting dairy intake, I voluntarily consumed cream, milk, ice cream and Ferrero Rocher in a single glass.

Predictably, my digestive system responded with outrage.

Fortunately, my eldest daughter produced a lactase enzyme tablet from the depths of her bag like some kind of gastrointestinal wizard.

Within an hour, the situation improved dramatically.

The gas moved.
The pressure eased.
The emergency was averted.

For now.

In conclusion, I still have no idea what happened to my holiday stomach.

But much like the holiday itself, it was confusing, memorable and involved far more emotional processing than anyone expected.

Including my bowels.

— Frost ❄️