Day 129
Holiday - Day One
Well, after a fairly protracted few hours of being treated like a herd of cattle at the check-in desk of Luton airport, we finally got underway.
As the current Mrs. Snowman cunningly put my name on the papers for the car rental, I was only able to have one beer while we waited in the departures lounge.
It was the longest two hours of my life.
The flight wasn’t too bad and other than being sat next to a very large lady on the plane we arrived safe and sound. It’s quite difficult to relax when someone else’s buttocks are attacking half your seat. The last time I saw a backside that large it won the 2.30 at Newmarket.
As the mother-in-law wasn’t with us, we sailed through customs without any difficulties and went to collect our transport…or at least, we tried.
Collecting the car didn’t go exactly to plan.
After hanging around the rental office for an hour, we were eventually seen by a nice young lady who took another twenty minutes to go through all the paperwork.
I got to the vehicle, started the engine and drove off.
For about ten yards.
A horrible scraping noise was coming from somewhere underneath.
I got out to find the source of the racket and discovered half the sub frame was hanging off and scraping along the ground.
I left it where it was and went back in to inform them their cars were falling apart.
Another twenty minutes of paperwork ensued and we were presented with our back up vehicle.
I was about to embark on the journey for the hotel and was in the process of putting the paperwork in the glove box when I noticed they’d given me the wrong details.
We waited another twenty minutes for the correct documentation.
Great; everything was now in order and we could finally get going.
Er…no we couldn’t. This time the car wouldn’t start… there was no gas in it.
After another two rather frustrating hours and two car changes we finally got going.
Not the most inspiring of starts although I was looking forward to the journey as I have to admit that I like driving in Spain.
Not because I find it easier to drive a left-handed vehicle or because there’s considerably less traffic on the roads than there is in England but because of something far more exciting.
Spanish drivers are absolutely insane.
I felt right at home.
Indicators are rarely used and the speed limit seems to be whatever individual drivers feel like doing. Junctions are an automotive lottery with the winners merging safely with oncoming traffic and the losers either ending up in a ditch on the opposite side of the road or colliding head on with something coming the other way.
There are only about three or four main roads on Majorca with the remainder being single lane race tracks. Although it wasn't difficult to drive around the maze of streets that make up the towns, the sign posts seem to be part of some kind of cryptic puzzle which is only decipherable by people who live there. This wasn’t helped with Mrs. Snowman’s bold assertion that she knew exactly where we were going and would therefore provide the navigation.
Not only did we end up outside the wrong hotel, it transpired she’d directed me to a completely different town to the one we were supposed to be going to. A friendly native pointed me in the right direction and we finally got to Magalluf three and a half hours late.
The hotel is wonderful…if you’re not bothered about continual loud music, crap food, indifferent staff or meager facilities.
Before going to our designated room I did what any other male would do under the circumstances: check out their Internet café and see if I could play some online poker.
To my horror I found a large sticker on the side of the terminal stating that access would cost me the equivalent of $15 per hour. Even if I injected myself with ‘Essence de Joe Hachem’ I knew I would be unable to achieve this kind of return on my money so reluctantly came to the conclusion that the holiday would be poker free.
At least I wouldn’t lose any cash…well, not at the poker tables at least.
However, after unpacking and discovering the awful truth about the hotel’s Internet provision I wandered along the shore and found an absolutely super bar called the “Palm Beach”. The music was relaxed and laid back, the owner (Jamie) was both congenial and welcoming and the staff more than happy to put up with your reporter drinking inordinate quantities of wine with Southern Comfort chasers.
All in all the ideal location.
If you guys ever have the misfortune to visit this God-awful town, I urge you to spend a few pleasant hours at the only oasis of civility and calm with a hundred miles.
Mention my name and you’ll be afforded a great welcome, plus of course, I might get a few bottles on the house if I ever go back.
Six hours later I staggered back into the hotel in considerably higher spirits and decided the place wasn’t so bad after all.
Mrs. Snowman had a somewhat different view; I think her exact words were:
“You’re a fucking disgrace”
I can’t be precise about the wording but I’m certain of the intonation.
I know this because I have a handbag shaped bruise on my buttocks.
First thing in the morning I might go to the consulate and find out the procedure for obtaining deportation papers...or ones that could have the wife sectioned under a local mental heath act.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.28
Well, after a fairly protracted few hours of being treated like a herd of cattle at the check-in desk of Luton airport, we finally got underway.
As the current Mrs. Snowman cunningly put my name on the papers for the car rental, I was only able to have one beer while we waited in the departures lounge.
It was the longest two hours of my life.
The flight wasn’t too bad and other than being sat next to a very large lady on the plane we arrived safe and sound. It’s quite difficult to relax when someone else’s buttocks are attacking half your seat. The last time I saw a backside that large it won the 2.30 at Newmarket.
As the mother-in-law wasn’t with us, we sailed through customs without any difficulties and went to collect our transport…or at least, we tried.
Collecting the car didn’t go exactly to plan.
After hanging around the rental office for an hour, we were eventually seen by a nice young lady who took another twenty minutes to go through all the paperwork.
I got to the vehicle, started the engine and drove off.
For about ten yards.
A horrible scraping noise was coming from somewhere underneath.
I got out to find the source of the racket and discovered half the sub frame was hanging off and scraping along the ground.
I left it where it was and went back in to inform them their cars were falling apart.
Another twenty minutes of paperwork ensued and we were presented with our back up vehicle.
I was about to embark on the journey for the hotel and was in the process of putting the paperwork in the glove box when I noticed they’d given me the wrong details.
We waited another twenty minutes for the correct documentation.
Great; everything was now in order and we could finally get going.
Er…no we couldn’t. This time the car wouldn’t start… there was no gas in it.
After another two rather frustrating hours and two car changes we finally got going.
Not the most inspiring of starts although I was looking forward to the journey as I have to admit that I like driving in Spain.
Not because I find it easier to drive a left-handed vehicle or because there’s considerably less traffic on the roads than there is in England but because of something far more exciting.
Spanish drivers are absolutely insane.
I felt right at home.
Indicators are rarely used and the speed limit seems to be whatever individual drivers feel like doing. Junctions are an automotive lottery with the winners merging safely with oncoming traffic and the losers either ending up in a ditch on the opposite side of the road or colliding head on with something coming the other way.
There are only about three or four main roads on Majorca with the remainder being single lane race tracks. Although it wasn't difficult to drive around the maze of streets that make up the towns, the sign posts seem to be part of some kind of cryptic puzzle which is only decipherable by people who live there. This wasn’t helped with Mrs. Snowman’s bold assertion that she knew exactly where we were going and would therefore provide the navigation.
Not only did we end up outside the wrong hotel, it transpired she’d directed me to a completely different town to the one we were supposed to be going to. A friendly native pointed me in the right direction and we finally got to Magalluf three and a half hours late.
The hotel is wonderful…if you’re not bothered about continual loud music, crap food, indifferent staff or meager facilities.
Before going to our designated room I did what any other male would do under the circumstances: check out their Internet café and see if I could play some online poker.
To my horror I found a large sticker on the side of the terminal stating that access would cost me the equivalent of $15 per hour. Even if I injected myself with ‘Essence de Joe Hachem’ I knew I would be unable to achieve this kind of return on my money so reluctantly came to the conclusion that the holiday would be poker free.
At least I wouldn’t lose any cash…well, not at the poker tables at least.
However, after unpacking and discovering the awful truth about the hotel’s Internet provision I wandered along the shore and found an absolutely super bar called the “Palm Beach”. The music was relaxed and laid back, the owner (Jamie) was both congenial and welcoming and the staff more than happy to put up with your reporter drinking inordinate quantities of wine with Southern Comfort chasers.
All in all the ideal location.
If you guys ever have the misfortune to visit this God-awful town, I urge you to spend a few pleasant hours at the only oasis of civility and calm with a hundred miles.
Mention my name and you’ll be afforded a great welcome, plus of course, I might get a few bottles on the house if I ever go back.
Six hours later I staggered back into the hotel in considerably higher spirits and decided the place wasn’t so bad after all.
Mrs. Snowman had a somewhat different view; I think her exact words were:
“You’re a fucking disgrace”
I can’t be precise about the wording but I’m certain of the intonation.
I know this because I have a handbag shaped bruise on my buttocks.
First thing in the morning I might go to the consulate and find out the procedure for obtaining deportation papers...or ones that could have the wife sectioned under a local mental heath act.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.28
