On our ninth day in Formentera, I admitted I was ‘ready to go home’. I often feel that way, wherever I am, in holiday when there’s a short time left. It’s then I’d like to teleport myself straight home or borrow a TARDIS to cut out the travel bit. Thanks to those wretched laws of science, we had to go home the conventional ways, by bus, by boat, by bus, by plane by 10k walk from the aircraft to passport control and then a lift home. As TUI had organised most of it, and not me, everything went like clockwork.
Arriving at the collection point at 6.00 am, I noted for the first time the ski lifts next to the hotel, shown below, and marvelled at both remarkable climate in this sunshiny Balearic island and my own ignorance in not knowing winter sports took place here. You live and learn.
From the bus to the ferry to Ibiza which left bang on 7.00 am. The harbour is quite picturesque, especially as sun had now risen.
The brief trip to Ibiza wasn’t particularly noteworthy, apart from the boat bouncing through the wash of some bigger craft and soon we were approaching Ibiza Town when something happened that I thought only ever happens on aircraft: nearly everyone stood up to get off even though we clearly couldn’t. My partner and I waited patiently while the boat docked, grabbed our luggage and met the TUI representative who took us to the bus which took us via the motorway to the airport. It turned out that rushing off the boat to meet the rep ahead of everyone else added nothing but stress. Not to us though.
Ibiza airport is a doddle to navigate in terms of check-in and security. So is the passport bit, but only if you are an EU citizen. For UK travellers, it’s wait for ages to have your passport stamped; yet another so-called Brexit benefit. A bloke by me said: “This is ridiculous!” to which I replied: “Yes, it is. This is what Boris Johnson specifically asked for when we left Europe. It’s called Brexit.” As our EU friends used the automatic passport machines to our left, we queued.
One thing I like about the Balearics is their proximity to Bristol. The flight is little more than two hours, although we were slightly delayed by a 35 year old Jet 2 Boeing 757 taking off just in front of us on our one month old Boeing 737-800 Max.
We landed in Bristol from the west, which means downhill with an almighty bang and reverse thrust at its noisiest best. As soon as we landed, the sound of clicks from undone seatbelts echoed round the cabin. By the time the plane juddered to a halt, nearly everyone was standing up. Why? The steps weren’t anywhere near the plane and around ten minutes passed until they were. Then it was panic stations, with some idiots literally climbing over seats to get off first. The steps attached, the doors opened, it was soon time to disembark and for me to gawp at the handsome piece of machinery that had brought us effortlessly from Ibiza. I was slightly concerned as the TUI engineer examined a trail of black smoke coming from the engine, but since it subsequently departed for Dalaman I’m assuming this was nothing to worry about.
Once in the baggage reclaim area, I visited the gentlemen’s wash room where another British tradition was at play, the one where blokes pass water, or more than water, and DON”T WASH THEIR HANDS. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t visit the washroom, or lack of washroom as perhaps we should call it, and observe men carrying out essential bodily functions, but I am one for watching blokes not wash their hands and then continuing as normal. Like holding their wife’s hand with a hand that was only recently holding something else, with added urine and even worse. Men: why do you do this?
Leaving the airport simply reminds me what cheerless places they are. No one smiles, whether they are coming or going, so to speak. You just want to get in and get out as soon as possible. I was very glad to get out and then home, where I am happiest, always.
