Hello dear readers. I am fully aware of the thousands of
blog posts in my mind that are not getting the exposure they deserve, however I
do intend to rectify that. I shall not digress into guilt here, however. This
post is about our accidental holiday exactly ten years ago.
In the autumn of 2008, Mother and I were becoming desperate
for some sun after spending three months trying to embrace the 'British
Summer'. Alas, as many of you might be aware, The Summer of '08 in the UK did
not live up to our expectations. So, upon the arrival of my October half term,
Mother decided to whisk us both off to an exotic destination. Since the
internet was invented, going on holiday has become increasingly difficult, in
my opinion, due to the never-ending options, discounts and false advertisements
seeping out of your PC screen.
"Booked!" Mother exclaimed as I came home from
school one day.
"What? What is booked?"
"Our holiday, darling!"
"Oh good! Where are we going?"
"A beautiful island off
the coast of Spain! One of the Balearic Islands, sweetie!"
Obviously I didn't know what a Balearic Island was but the
word "island" was enough to get me packing. In the midst of my
teenage years, I decided that 12 pairs of shorts and 97 bikinis would be sufficient
for a 5 day break. Wonder where I get it from.
Arriving at the check-in, I realise we are flying to
Mallorca. Now, ordinarily, this is a great choice for some European sun in
October. However, I simply never imagined Mother stepping foot in Mallorca,
simply because every time she mentions it, she pronounces it;
"Muh-YAAAAAAAW-KAAA" (with a delightfully strong South-East London
accent) and grimaces. Oh well, perhaps this is a different 'Mallorca'. Maybe
it's Majorca? Is that a different place? My 16 year old self was fairly weak on
European geography.
A number of hours later, we are being shuffled off the
plane, out into the sunny airport car park of Mallorca and shoved into a people
carrier with about 10 other people. Well, this is fun, I thought. It's like
'Coach Trip'. Mother tried to smile (grimace) towards the other passengers
(oddly enough, most of them were from ...... 'The North'. A source of distress for Mother).
Anyway, this trip from airport to hotel takes rather a long
time. I am desperate to get to the beach (hello yes that's me, the typical Brit
sun-seeker). Mother is desperate to get
off the minibus. Unfortunately, we are the final drop off (evidently the bus
was an airport transfer for a variety of people all going to different areas of
the island). So, after a lengthy tour of
Mallorca's motorways, the driver says to us (in perfect English. In fact, he was English. Possibly a 'Gary') ; "alright ladies, 'ere we
are. Magaluf. 'Av a nice 'oliday!"
Magaluf.
Mother has booked a holiday in... Magaluf.
We are in Magaluf?! MAGALUF?! Magaluf, as in 'Shag-a-luf'?
WOW. Fantastic. Great. This is just.... Yes, excellent.
For those who are unaware, Magaluf is not a holiday
destination. It is hell.
A
simple Google Image search will not show ANY photographs of an idyllic island,
let me assure you. This is what you will find on the first results page;
I nearly vomited whilst scrolling through.
A Booze Cruise doesn't appeal to me, I'm afraid.
Mother remained silent for approximately 45 minutes. This is
unheard of. A moment of silence from Mother is absolutely terrifying and is a
sure indication that something rather shocking is about to occur. However, when
Mother eventually uttered a word, she simply said;
"Magaluf? I don't think I booked...
Magaluf?"
So. We are on an accidental holiday.
However, to my great surprise, Mother then said;
"Oh well. We're here now and it's sunny. Get your
swimsuit on, darling. We'll go to the beach!"
A remarkably positive outlook on such a horrific situation.
And so it goes that we spent the remainder of that day
avoiding the club street and enjoying the white sandy beaches.
For those of you needing a good cry, now would be the time.
The following day a ridiculously large storm arrived in Shagaluf, barricading
Mother and I (and all the other hotel
residents) inside the hotel. You may think that the worst part of it all would
be the extremely untimely weather that lasted the remainder of the holiday. It
was not. It was, in fact, the simple idea of spending an entire twelve hours
inside a hotel with the Tylers and the Damiens and the Kierans and the
Chontelles and the Kayleighs . Sorry, Katie Hopkins got inside my head there.
With absolutely nothing to do (unless we were willing to
watch Casino Royale on a loop in the breakfast room), Mother became creative. Dear old Travel-Ted
was gifted with a tailor-made napkin suit;
How resourceful she is.
The glowing beacon of hope on this trip was the Indian
Restaurant along the beach. To our surprise, it was better than decent.
Practically empty as they didn't serve greasy drunk food at 4am. Mother made very good friends with Dave, the Indian
waiter and owner. Sort of a one-man-band situation here, I think. I, myself, am
still stunned as to why 'Dave' decided that Magaluf was a good place to reside
and start his business.
Mother, not one to be defeated by the world's most dreadful
town, made conversation with Dave every single night (yes, we ate there every
single night). A small feast of mildly-interrogative questions hop back into my
memory here;
"Are you married? Where is your family? Do they live
here? Why are you here?"
Ok, so simple, small-talk questions. Unfortunately, however,
it escalated by the third evening so much that I actually ended up
third-wheeling their dinner date. (To clarify; it was definitely not a romantic date. I would not have allowed such a disaster).
The moral of the story, here, is ... NEVER go to Magaluf.
Not even accidentally.
However, if you do find yourself there and cannot escape
(crying at the thought) , make the most of it and hang out with Dave and his
curries.
I hope you enjoyed this little memory (traumatic flashback
for me, personally) and raise your glass to more on-brand, exotic holidays in future.
xoxo
