In the summer of 1995, I went on a family holiday to Portugal. On the first day I got a call from a UK magazine, asking if I would be interested in interviewing Meg Ryan, in three days’ time. I looked out to the pool, where my wife and my mother-in-law were pushing my infant son across the water in an inflatable ring.“Sure,” I said. I broke the news, packed my things, flew to London and, the next day, to LA.While no one who knows me would suggest I am overburdened by ambition, I still cling to the freelancer’s habit of never quite admitting to being on holiday: I bring work with me, I still accept assignments while I’m away, and I’m always a little cagey regarding my whereabouts.On Friday an email arrives, asking if I’m available to go on the radio next week. I know I should admit that I’m on holiday in the country, in a remote cottage with no phone reception and ropey internet, poorly tethered to civilisation by a mile of copper wire. And so, on balance, no thanks, maybe next time.“I can do it,” I type back.Over the weekend guests arrive, friends on their way somewhere else. The weather is unrelentingly glorious, the views are amazing and I’m worrying about how I’m going to manage a live radio interview three days hence.“How long are you here for?” our friend asks.“Nearly two weeks,” my wife says.“How lucky!” our friend says.“The thing about him,” my wife says, pointing at me, “is he can work anywhere.”“I mean, I’m sort of working now,” I say, indicating the laptop in front of me.“You’ve been online all morning,” my wife says. “When are we going out?”“That’s the thing about slow internet,” I say. “Everything takes longer.” In truth, I am trying to download a crossword puzzle.On Wednesday morning everyone goes to the beach while I stay with the dog. At the appointed hour I click the link the radio programme sent me. A technician comes on the line.“Hi,” I say. “Can you hear me?”“You sound weird,” he says.“Do I?”“Never mind, at least the line’s clear,” he says. “You’re on at 20 past, so just keep the link open until then.”I think: the whole time?My wife and our friends return two hours later.“The sea is unbelievable,” she says. “How was your radio thing?”“Fine,” I say. “The link held, and Janet Street-Porter did most of the talking anyway.”“That’s lucky,” she says. “What’s for lunch?”More friends arrive, and there is some overlap, but negotiating the use of the single shower proves easier than rationing the limited bandwidth. Even when people aren’t using their phones, their phones are using the internet.“Two weeks! How amazing!” says a new arrival.“The thing about him is, he can work anywhere,” my wife says.skip past newsletter promotionafter newsletter promotion“At the moment, I can’t even send a text,” I say.The weekend comes. Our first visitors depart. New friends arrive for Sunday lunch.“Were you on the radio last week?” says one. “With Janet Street-Porter?”“Yeah,” I say. “Did I sound weird?”“No more than usual,” the friend says.“I’m suggesting an evening swim,” my wife says, turning to me. “Are you coming this time?”“Sure,” I say, thinking: I can probably send texts from the beach.At six we take a car to the beach, dog included. The tide is out, the sea is warm and the phone signal is amazing. Within the hour we’re driving back down the long track to the cottage. I’ve got sand in my hair, salt on my skin, and a wet dog on my lap. My email inbox is up to date.My wife hits the brakes suddenly. Ahead a tree is lying across the track.“When did that happen?” I say.“While we were out,” my wife says. “We could have been under it.”We all climb over the tree and walk down to the cottage. When my wife tries to call someone about the problem, a further problem presents itself; a trip back to the car confirms it.“The tree took the phone line down with it,” I say.“No internet,” my wife says.“Trapped like rats,” I say.“Don’t be like that,” she says.“How am I going to work?” I say. “I’ll have to walk half a mile just to get a signal!”“You used to do that all the time,” she says.First thing Monday morning, trudging uphill through a flock of sheep with my laptop held open, I think: she’s right; I used to do this a lot.