Couples are turning holidays into relationship tests - would yours survive?

Have you done a turbulence test? I don't mean trying to pour your in-flight wine during that bumpy bit over the Atlantic between New York and London.

Turbulence testing is the latest travel trend, in which new couples use a romantic getaway to measure their compatibility. If a fledgling relationship can survive the twists and turns of modern travel, the cancelled flights, missed trains and lost reservations, then it must have legs - or wheels, or wings, so the logic goes. And if not, you can check out faster than a hotel guest who's stolen the bathrobe.

A hefty 37 per cent of travellers in the latest booking.com global survey said they would holiday purely for this purpose, and a North Carolina hotel even offers a Turbulence Test Package including cocktails and "conversation cards", with a discounted stay one year later for couples who endure.

But I'm guessing there won't be many.

A newly minted relationship is not an Airbus A380. It's a delicate dream built from hope and hormones, so vulnerable that even the mildest emotional weather front can snap off its wings - so why torpedo it with a mad MAFS-on-the-move, trial by travel experiment designed to help it crash and burn?

Travel is a hothouse; a microcosm where life is magnified. There's no escape. The smallest disagreement can escalate to epic when trapped in a tent or confined to a cruise ship. I know a couple who spent a 10-day Japanese rail odyssey at opposite ends of the shinkansen after a hangry tiff turned titanic. Result: sayonara.

Sure, travel exposes red flags that everyday dating can hide. Perhaps he's one of those alpine divorce men who'd dump you on the mountain. Maybe she'll sleep with your dad in the next room and steal your money, White Lotus style.

It can also differentiate the carry-on commando from the six-suitcase schlepper, the lounge lizard from the culture vulture, the precision planner from the wing-it wanderer, any of which might be dealbreakers. Especially if you're a hasty judge, like me.

I'd struggle to make it beyond the airport if a man showed up - as so many do - festooned with squishy neck pillows and snuggly blankets. Call me old-fashioned, but there's something unheroic about armouring up for adventures in memory foam. It implies someone who might cry if you took his window seat.

And ah, the proximity! There's no passion killer quite like it. The most sizzling chemistry can be neutralised by the silhouette of a toilet close to your bed, only partially concealed by an artfully misted window, or the looming awkwardness of a mid-room bathtub.

Romance thrives on mystique, and there can be even less of it in a five-star bedroom than a teeny tent. I have a friend who fell for someone largely because of their spectacular mane. Only after unpacking in Fiji did she discover the extent of industrial equipment it took to maintain that hairstyle, and that it filled every hotel bathroom surface. Result: hair today, gone tomorrow.

Never assume a romantic location means a romcom ending. In my twenties I managed to strangle a relationship at birth with a weekend in Paris. It turns out that the pressure to live up to the city of love is a mighty potent anti-aphrodisiac. Freaked out by all the Eiffel Tower proposals, wandering accordion players and Serge Gainsbourg sexy songs, we decided being single was far less frightening.

The opposite's possible too. On tour, your holiday goggles can confuse the giddiness of exotic climes with love for the one you're with, when the truth is you're falling for Tahiti or Tuscany. I've done that, too, only to return later and realise the place is much better seen solo.