Long Haul jet lag was a bitch until I had to rise sharply and alertly from a light sleep at 2.40am on the morning of the 8th August 09. I was whisked off through the fresh dark empty night in a black 3 Series BMW like a spy on a covert mission of inter-planetary importance. My darling daughter, as mission controller, skilfully navigated the undercover route and penetrated the perimeter security of the closet low cost carrier airport – Bristol. Bristol airport at 4.15am had an air of reluctance about it. Apparently, only forlorn persons with half open eyes and tousled hair were being admitted. Generally we fitted the bill well. Little was being said. Propulsion was derived from the prospect of sunny days, golden beaches, tapas, and the fun of a foreign language.
My party were a trio. On two seperate flights to the same destination. Alicante in Spain. Rach and Stu’s Thompson flight departed around the 6am mark and my Ryan Air flight departed at 6.40am. The two hour flight plus hour time difference brought me bouncing to the tarmac just before 10am on a warm sunny Spanish morning. I haven’t witnessed applause at a successful landing of a modern jet aircraft for years and I wondered if the pilot had been bet by the co pilot that he couldn’t get applause for his landing. That was surely the reason he bounced the machine far too late onto the runway then in a frenzy of hold those horses activity had the reverse thrust roaring like a lion as the michelins were stretched to the limit between tarmac and tons of de accelerating bones,flesh and metal. The Ryan Air pilot must have been Spanish but got his pay, his on time delivery bonus, some applause from the cabin and, I suspect, an extra tenner from the co-pilot.
In a Latino fling of carefree dismissiveness Alicante airport was without immigration or customs officers, AND my (undamaged!) bag was in the first truck from the apron so, within minutes of departing the aircraft, I was wandering through the Alicante Airport wondering where the other two of my traveller trio had taken up hiding. To my surprise they weren’t playing that ‘lets watch to see what he does when he can’t find us’ game and I found them draped raggedly across the end of a row of chairs amongst stand up cases with extended handles and discarded fleeces in an arrival hall at the normal landing end of the airport buildings. We’d wandered back through half of the airport and out into the arrivals pick up area before someone remembered about mobile phones. A brief exchange over the airwaves with a ‘Spanish’ member of the Fegredo family assured us that we would not be subject to that age old game of ‘lets see what they do when they aren’t picked up’ and within minutes a fit, tanned, younger version of Omar Shariff climbed out of a Toyota Prius that had glided quietly into a parking space within feet of us. Stu’s Dad’s welcome was warmer than the Spanish morning and spread a smile on our presence more smoothly than warm butter on toast.
Twenty minutes of Toyota Prius gliding over a mix of intercity highway ‘quality’ roads and more Spanish style, bumpier rural access routes ultimately brought us to the Fegredo residence at an urbanisation around a village called La Marina. Jeff left us in no doubt about how proud he was of his palace and proud I would have been too! On a 400square meter plot Jeff and his wife Yo had created a Spanish bungalow style habitat that mixed easy living with functionality and comfort. Complemented by an 8 meter long pool at the rear the gardens were shrub driven and eco friendly providing a mix of colour, scents for warding off mozzy’s, scents for deep breaths at dusk and dawn, and security…bloody sharp spiky affairs along the inside of the front wall!
Down The Road 