My chihuahua Sally had the right idea about holidays. In fact, for her life was one long holiday. She used to sleep all day, rousing herself just to eat and drink, and would rather have had her neck broken than be dragged out for a walk.

She lived until the age of 17 which, in doggy years, is 119. It had been a good life: one long Thomas Cook voyage of good food and sloth.

Human holidays should be lived as Sally lived her life: strictly in the comfort zone. No fleas, muddy water or nights under canvas; no grassy knolls, Wellingtons, or early rises to catch the dawn sun; no earnest conversations about the meaning of life and the joys of getting in touch with one's inner soul or the joys of Nature.

Real holidays are daytime cocktails by the pool, siestas, bars and restaurants at night; fluffy towels, fresh sheets every day; breakfast in bed, Champagne permanently on ice; a mountainous stomach packed to breaking point. And sleep. Lots of it.

They have subscribed to a romanticised view of slumming it

It has become fashionable to sneer at holidays that celebrate pleasure for pleasure's sake. As in everyday life, the work ethic has hit travelling, and now "holidaymakers" are made to feel guilty for sitting on their backsides and enjoying it.

"Travellers", however, are perceived to be superior beings, avoiding package tour hot spots around the world and rowdy people from back home.

They allegedly have higher ideals, as they walk for kilometres in ridiculously impractical footwear and dirty headscarves, admiring dull, old monuments, talking to poor locals and returning home reeking of humility to count their blessings.

To them, the old adage that it is better to travel than to arrive holds true: in reality, they have subscribed to a romanticised view of slumming it, in the belief it makes them better people. It doesn't: it just makes them mad.

I have tried to be a traveller, and it stinks. I once took my bike to Tenby on the south-west coast of Wales and cycled 17km to a youth hostel, where I shared a room with six smelly people from various parts of the globe.

The next day, I returned home on the train and went, instead, to Porthcawl fair, where I spent a highly enjoyable afternoon on the rides and stuffing my face with candy-floss and cockles.

In an attempt to see more of Italy than one does diving head first into a glass of chianti, I once travelled the length of the country on a bus.

Surrounded by other travellers, all expounding the wonders of journeying light and long, I sat in misery with a full bladder for 13 hours and just prayed every time the driver took his hands off the wheel while cornering an Alpine pass.

Travelling is bad for mind, body and spirit: it makes you bad-tempered and does nothing apart from give you endless tedious stories with which to bore your friends upon your return (Yes, I know paupers have no feet in India, but I am not going to give myself a hard time for having toes.)

Holidaying, on the other hand, gives a body what it needs: time to recuperate and relax.

I last took a holiday on the Costa del Sol, a destination hugely sneered at by travellers but hugely enjoyed by us holidaymakers.

• This article was originally published on page 12 of Saturday Star on November 26, 2005