I lead a mad existence and my travel experiences are no exception. I took my family to Mexico City last year: by night, I was stepping over the dead victims of gangsters; by day, I was cradling my two-year-old baby daughter and playing hide-and-seek in the hotel lobby. In hindsight, it wasn't a great idea, as it was too dangerous to leave the sanctuary and safety of our hotel without an official escort. But in between prisons, kidnappers, drug lords and some Calpol, we did manage to get to the world's biggest ice rink in the middle of the city.
Not all our family holidays are quite so surreal. When we go away, I try to forget about work, but we have to journey far afield to find that peace and tranquillity. One of my favourite places is Langkawi in Malaysia. It's a beautiful part of the world and the service at the Four Seasons is second to none. We took our daughter Allegra on our honeymoon and the people were so warm and friendly.
I learnt to windsurf, badly, and took my wife canoeing for the first time, which she found very romantic. But the favour had to be repaid by me accompanying her to the spa. I was threatened with a back wax, but I managed to avoid that by going to a Pilates class instead. It was all very nice and genteel, but there's only so long I can stand on one leg before the need for something a little more adventurous kicks in.
That's where my boys' holidays come into their own. We set ourselves an annual challenge, more often than not involving surfing, canoeing or mountaineering. It took five attempts to climb the Matterhorn, as bad weather thwarted our efforts, but I'm not the kind of climber who feels compelled to strive on if conditions aren't right. In fact, I'd class myself as a trophy mountain hunter. My ambitions only extend to mountains people have heard of and I always take the quickest and easiest route up. I'd be happy to land on the top in a helicopter if I could get away with it.
The first time I went away with the boys, back in the late 1980s, was to Co Clare in Ireland. Doolin has some of the most dangerous surf in the world, so six of us packed into the car, with surfboards on the roof rack, to try it out. The area is also famous for its pubs, and coupled with a music festival, we didn't get to see too much surf. But tragically and unbeknown to us, four young lads were drowned and washed up in the riptides, two of whom were brothers, and somehow my mother received a call from our local politician to say that my twin brother and I had died. Oblivious to what was going on, we carried on partying for four days, before returning home without so much as a pre-warning phone call. My mother nearly had a heart attack and we got a mighty kick up the arse for being so selfish.
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My mother is the stalwart of the family; she always has been since she separated from my father when I was young. She was left with five children under eight, but she did a grand job. Family life was chaotic and holidays were always done on the spur of the moment. We'd pack our tents on a Friday and drive up through the south of Ireland to West Cork. We'd either arrive very late at night or not at all, in which case we'd set up camp on a traffic island or round-about. We'd make friends with the local publican and be given cups of tea, or someone would offer us farmland where we would pitch our tent. That was pretty normal in Ireland, certainly pre the Celtic tiger.
It would have been easier for my mum to have returned to America, her homeland, where she'd have had a lot more help and support. But she liked the Irish values, so instead of being raised as wealthy Americans, we were brought up as proud Irish, happy to make ends meet. We visited her relatives in Seattle in 1976, and I was so in awe of the aeroplane and everything that went with air travel. We were taken to a fancy pizzeria, our first foray into "foreign" food, where the pizza came highly recommended. But as our extended family looked on in horror, all five of us kids ordered chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. It seems odd now - my kids won't eat anything except pizza.
Donal MacIntyre talked to Sandie Jones