We are definitely getting braver with our holidays. Finally we are getting out and visiting places in the world that normal people have already been to…twice probably. (Although there is plenty to say that a holiday to South Wales in a Yurt is probably a similar level of bravery). Anyway we booked Ibiza.
Just to make life as hard as possible for us I booked to go in April before the season starts, requiring a bit of planning and a lot of driving on the other side of the road. Ah well if we could cope with this we could do anything. Which is apparently the same I said about Amsterdam. And probably the Yurt. We really are the travelling kind.
Inevitably we spent the first half an hour in the airport wrecking my perfectly packed suitcase by decanting a sizeable amount of clothes into every piece of hand luggage we could find. Other than that and having to throw two perfectly good water bottles in the bin because I forgot to empty the flipping things and it all went smoothly. Although Phoebe flashing shoes did rather upset the security scanner.
The plane went up and then came down again in the right place without any ear related agony. And the sun was shining. I started to think things were going a bit too well.
We had booked a hire car at home using one of those irritating compare sites and got a ludicrously cheap deal. On arrival we realised why. Firstly we could’t pick the car up at the actual airport – that would have been too convenient. We had to wait for a minibus.
My guidebook said in Spain people don’t queue. We, of course, do – so queued behind a British couple in a semi patient fashion. The minibus arrived and the boot was opened just as a Spanish couple shot out of nowhere wielding suitcases. I rejected my Britishness and threw the suitcase in first like a woman possessed. I’m not sure the Mediterranean is good for me.
We were taken to a dusty car park and brick shed and queued for far too long. I wasn’t keen on the Spanish negotiation that followed (well not so much negotiation as me signing a piece of paper and hoping for the best) but they lent me a car so that was the first goal achieved. I set off out of the car park and swore a few times. I initially thought it was terrifying. Although not as terrifying as the thought of scratching the paintwork. The kids were the quietest I have ever known them. I can’t imagine why.
After about twenty minutes, most of which I can’t remember in the slightest, we arrived at our apartment in Cala Llonga.
The view was beautiful. The pool was lovely. The bar was open, as was the Spar to buy croissants and biscuits. We swam, unpacked, ate at the only open restaurant in the complex and were shown a tortoise. Our holiday had begun.