Vicky Ewan: A holidays of 'firsts' - and all enjoyable at that

Our recent weekend on the Scilly Isles was a holiday of firsts: first time in a plane for our youngest (on the outward journey); first time on a big boat for my husband (on the return); first time seeing dolphins in the wild, as they frolicked joyously around the boat; first time Miss Pup had a sleepover - happy experiences, every one.
From the outset, things got off to a good start. We successfully transferred our dog to my friend's safe abode early on the Saturday morning, and, after a little last-minute packing and the inevitable re-entry into the house to collect a couple of overlooked items, managed to take our leave a mere 14 minutes post-schedule - a record for our tardy family.
Travelling to the airport was a civilised affair, as we had allowed ourselves more than adequate time; we even accomplished a breakfast stop, once our destination was sufficiently nearby to breathe easily about a punctual arrival.
My husband - or, rather, his sat-nav system - navigated brilliantly, facilitating our location of the recommended parking site, and the shuttle service transported us to the terminal without a glitch. The only hitch occurred when we learnt that our plane was delayed - the latest casualty in a line of thwarted flights.
We were unconcerned, comfortably awaiting check-in at the airport café and watching in fascination as the plane ahead of ours taxied and took off, knowing that our turn was imminent. Once check-in was complete, we were invited into an antechamber to listen to a safety drill before exiting the building to board our plane.
We had been assigned seats at the rear of the vehicle, and I found myself adjacent to a friendly gentleman who, though a veteran visitor to the islands, was experiencing plane transportation for the first time, alongside his wife and a couple of friends.
The journey was swift and largely uneventful - though a real joyride for our youngest - and as we passed over the navy-blue waters of the Atlantic that churned and sparkled beneath us, I was filled with elation as I imagined what lay ahead.
Despite a descent that was significantly steeper and more exhilarating than we had expected, we landed without fuss, collected our luggage and were whisked away to our accommodation: a charming hostel on the edge of town.
We were welcomed warmly and handed keys to a large room kitted out with three sets of sturdy bunks and an adjoining shower room. The decor was light and modest, beautifully clean, and we were enchanted by the beds with their pull-round curtains.
We staked our individual sleep claims, then headed into town, a leisurely half-hour stroll punctuated by few cars and several bicycles - seemingly the preferred method of transport for Scillonians and guests alike.
As we approached the harbour, the view was idyllic, with pale sandy beaches and boats bobbing serenely in the calm turquoise waters. To my delight - and quite by chance, so unassuming was its position and façade - my eye fell upon the island's Catholic church, one-time home of our late bishop.
It was a pleasure to find its door unlocked, and I entered the modest building, climbing the flight of stairs to discover the Chapel housed in the upper room - a fitting location. The interior was similarly humble and appealing, with wooden furniture and simple upholstery adorning the plain benches; it supplied the perfect setting for me to utter a word of thanks for our family getaway before I headed back downstairs to add a message of greeting from our home parish to the visitors book before joining the others outside in the summer sunshine.
That first afternoon was peppered with pasties, ice creams, drinks and other indulgences as we soaked up the sun and the soothing vibes of this unhurried lifestyle. As evening beckoned, we stepped into a motorboat which sped across the water to the neighbouring island of St Agnes, where a delicious supper awaited in the rustic pub. The passage to and from that destination was thrilling - and somewhat hair-raising, on occasion, as the vessel dipped and skimmed, whipping up the spray and flinging it mercilessly our way.
Wending our way back to the hostel late that night, weary and a little sun-kissed but happy, I was already looking forward to the next day dawning. We woke early and checked out, bidding a fond farewell to our homely lodgings, and took a taxi to the Quay to store our luggage in advance of our ferry home late that afternoon.
Another boat trip awaited, this time to Tresco, where we spent some hours in the stunning sub-tropical gardens, the genre of plants that featured in its spectacular grounds being a particular passion of my husband's. There was time for a final drink on the island before we caught a boat back to St Mary's in time to check in and embark on the sail home.
My friend had kept us up to date with the well-being of Miss Pup during our absence, and we were reassured and touched to learn that she appeared to be settling in. We were missing her, though, and regarded every example of canine life that we encountered with doe-eyed affection; we couldn't wait to be reunited with our own gorgeous pooch. It seemed the experiment had been a success, and both dog and sitter had emerged unscathed - for which outcome we are all supremely grateful.
And so, to home, after a wonderful weekend in my favourite company, my post-vacation blues tempered by the realisation that there is one more first I can tick off the list: the first time, at the tender age of 40-something, I have arranged a holiday. Thank goodness all had gone well.