I’ve just returned from a few days holiday in the South of France. Holiday? It was hell on earth, writes Julia Stephenson.

And I'm not the only person who finds holidays hellish. Research from Churchill Travel Insurance reveals that 16 percent of women (the rest were probably lying) similarly report that holidays leave them feeling more stressed than if they’d stayed at home.

The truth is that released from the stimulating stresses of the workplace and thrown together in a confined space with your partner is a recipe for disaster.

And yet 70 per cent of us, according to the same report, hope holidays will help us to bond better with our other half. Are these people mad?

My inamorato and I begin to bicker at the first sniff of a holiday. We argue about where to go and how to get there - he favours the plane, I prefer the train.

This year we decided on a five-day break by train, paying to stay in a friend’s apartment in the South of France. When she popped round to pick up the rental cash she impressed us with dazzling photos of azure seas and stunning views from the terrace. We couldn’t wait.

But a terrible shock awaited us. Instead of a spacious apartment we found ourselves in a shoebox. The tiny dribbling shower was accessed by standing on the toilet.

No refuge could be found in sleep either: the Land of Nod was accessed by a pull down bed of rock hard resilience. Once in situ, this terrible thing filled the entire room. And the tiny Bunsen burner apparatus that justified the apartment being described as 'self-catering' loomed dangerously near the sleeper’s head.

I’ve spent time in National Health hospital corridors that were more comfortable. And at least they are free.

I could perhaps have coped with the gulag-style accommodation if we two had been getting along. Adversity can bring some couples closer. Sadly, not us.

When the hot water system suddenly broke down I sunk into a gloom from which it was impossible to escape and took refuge in writing poetry. My companion became moody and irritable.

'I’m going to find a girlfriend I can have some fun with,' he scowled. 'I can’t stand being cooped up with you and your bloody poems!’

This set off paroxysms of sobbing. And worse poems. Which made him even crosser as I insisted on reading them out loud to get the syntax right.

The broadband connection had also broken down, so I was unable to seek solace in Match.com, my usual refuge after one of our rows.

We’d hoped to see some of the surrounding scenery. But on the first day the exhaust system on our hire car exploded. This meant long walks down a steep ravine to the beach; and equally long walks up a hill in blistering heat to the nearest supermarket.

I was keen to eat out – maybe we would stop rowing if we sat in a restaurant – but the nearest was five miles away. And so 'to give me a rest' he decided to do all the cooking. I am the Queen Bee in the kitchen at home and hated being stripped of my authority, so there were fearful tussles over the one wooden spoon, while the Bunsen burner frequently toppled over as we fought over its control.

I was longing to run away dramatically, but this would have meant swallowing my principles and flying back from the nearest airport, only accessed by the dreaded Ryanair which I promised my eco-coach I would never, ever use.

At last it was our final day and it was with a spring in my step and a smile on my face that I boarded the Eurostar with my glowering companion.

When we arrived home we sighed with relief. Oh happy day! Harmony was restored after a blissful reunion with my Vi-Spring mattress, free broadband (unlike most hotels I don’t charge myself for this facility), constant hot water, and a fridge full of exotic foodstuffs hand-picked from posh person’s food emporium Partridges, down the road in Chelsea.

Easy access to the nearby Mother Ship (Peter Jones department store) took care of all other needs. How can any holiday destination compete with such an embarras des riches?

Next year I’m staying at home. I can’t wait.