The Day the Earth Stood Still

By Tess Kamara

In April 2010 my friend Elizabeth and I decided to take a writers’ holiday, choosing a self-catering apartment in Lagos on the Algarve. It was outside the season, making it cheaper and quieter than in the height of summer. With sunshine, the beach close by and few distractions, we could knuckle down to some serious work. Nothing could go wrong – could it?

We touched down on Saturday and enjoyed a scenic ride to our villa in Meia Praia, just outside the town centre. Opposite the beach, the apartments have all mod cons and a sunny terrace. There is a supermarket within walking distance and a regular bus to the town centre. The complex was only half occupied so we had peace and quiet to work in.

We soon settled into a routine – work in the morning, lunch, stroll into town to check email at a sleepy internet café, a dip in the waves then home for more work on the terrace, usually with a bottle of wine to hand. It seems hard to believe in the 21^st century but we were pretty cut off.  Satellite TV was extra so we hadn’t bothered to book it, and as neither of us speaks Portuguese, telly was restricted to a half hour American sitcom in the evening. Neither of us had an iPhone although Elizabeth had a mobile, and English newspapers were a few days old so we remained in blissful ignorance as Europe began to close down.

Surf lesson

On Tuesday we were off to surf school; I was trying to fulfil an ambition of standing up on a surfboard before I die. The Eyjafjallaj̈okull volcano had been active for some weeks by then which is normal for Iceland – the earth’s crust is so thin there that you can see hot water bubbling up on the side of the roads in Reykjavik. Back in Lagos, our hunky instructor Jez drove us out to Zavial Bay, an ideal spot for beginners as it’s fairly sheltered so the waves don’t get up to a scary height. I spent an enjoyable afternoon falling off the board – or “wiping out” as we surfer types call it. Elizabeth took to it like a duck to water and even managed to kneel up on the board, despite never having surfed before.

Next morning we went to buy presents, stopping at the internet café for coffee. It was much busier than usual and their wall TV, which normally showed football on a loop, had been switched to some sort of nature programme featuring volcanoes. Later, as we looked at tourist tat in town, Elizabeth got a short text asking whether the volcano was affecting our holiday. Mystified, we asked the shopkeeper. She assured us that no volcanic activity had occurred in Portugal and we must be thinking of the mini-tornado that had hit Lisbon the previous day.

A quiet internet cafe - but not for long

On our strolls into Lagos we sometimes came across an elderly British lady who I dubbed Ex Pat, who’d sit drinking tea and reading papers in the main square. She was typical of a certain type of Brit who retires abroad; well into her eighties but skinny and wiry, brimming with energy and tanned a deep mahogany from years in the sun. We saw her outside a café and went over to ask if she’d heard anything. “Oh, yes dear” said Pat. “There’s been flooding at Tavira, just down the coast. A storm made the marina to burst its banks, upending boats and flooding the streets. And it turns out Iceland have let off a volcano and it’s making its way across Europe, affecting air travel.” I made a joke about Armageddon, saying that after the volcanic eruption, tornado and flood, all we needed now was a plague of locusts. “Not locusts, dear, Asian hornets” said Pat, showing us an article in the Daily Mail. “There’s an invasion of them heading to Britain across the Channel.” At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the four horsemen of the Apocalypse gallop past; at least they had their own transport.

We didn’t think anything in faraway Iceland could affect us but we stopped off at the café to try and get more news. It was packed now, with people queuing for the six computers. Elizabeth rang Monarch airlines but kept getting a recording telling callers to check the website. From looking over the shoulders of others, it became clear that the major travel websites had crashed; Monarch’s had a message referring users to their phone number.

We got chatting with a friendly Scottish couple, Brian and Gayle. They were seasoned travellers; Brian was a master builder who spent several months a year overseeing projects in Spain and Portugal, accompanied by his wife.  They had been due to go home on the same flight as us, and were busy working out a plan B. At this stage nobody knew anything and the café was swirling with rumours and speculation in different languages. Because foreign roaming charges were so steep Elizabeth’s friend would only send the most laconic texts, but of course she had no more clue than we had. The stories grew wilder; I got the impression that the UK was covered in a pall of white ash and people were afraid to go outside. Someone confirmed that all European flights had been grounded and even if they were to resume in the near future, there was already a backlog of passengers trying to leave. It slowly dawned on us that we weren’t flying anywhere that Saturday. We briefly considered road travel, but that was impractical by now; every taxi and hire car had already been commandeered, while congestion was causing the continent’s motorways to close up like clogged arteries.

We did what the British do best in adversity and ordered drinks. Eventually Gayle waved us over; Brian had had a breakthrough. He’d managed to get on to the Brittany Ferries website and was booking them on the next available sailing, on the following Wednesday. He strongly advised us to do the same while the website was still open. After a moment’s wavering we did so. We found out later that shortly after we booked, all sailings filled up for the next month.  Trains out of Lagos were full for the foreseeable future but luckily the café was a not far from the bus station. The four of us pelted down there and joined a long queue, not knowing what we were buying tickets for. When we reached the front we found we could get tickets to Seville for Monday morning; we snapped them up, joking wryly that when we arrived in Seville we’d wing it.

All hope of a peaceful break evaporated as we bustled about, rearranging schedules and informing our employers. We were able to stay on at the villa paying a daily rate but we heard horror stories from other British tourists asking them to leave their hotels or pay double because of a sudden increase in demand. Of course there was no extra demand as the incomers were stranded as well; it was just a nasty trick to get money from already overstretched families. One family of five we met later in Madrid said they were forced to sleep on the beach because they simply couldn’t stump up the extra cash. We kept the TV on all evening and looked up every time a news bulletin came on. Although we don’t speak the language we both know French and Spanish and it’s amazing what you can learn when you have to.

News was coming in from all over Europe, with Britain low in the pecking order. The Queen of Denmark’s birthday was ruined because her extended family couldn’t make it. The funeral of the Polish prime minister, who’d died in a plane crash on the day we arrived, would have to be postponed because no heads of state could attend. Queen of the world Angela Merkel was stuck in Belgium, to no-one’s dismay. Over in Paris, taxi companies were making a fortune sending fleets to ferry passengers between the airport and the station as people scrabbled frantically for ways out. Wags were calling it the two-centre holiday; three days hanging around Orly airport waiting for a flight, followed by three nights sleeping in the Gare du Nord in the vain hope of getting on Eurostar. The only news item from the UK was a comic one – Dan Snow setting off with a fleet of rubber dinghies to ferry stranded Brits from Calais.

Local TV showed scenes of utter bedlam at Faro airport. Families who’d run out of money were camped out in the grounds. Mothers were putting babies to bed in open suitcases as kids ran amok, enjoying the chaos. Stories emerged of people paying hundreds of pounds for taxis to take them to the nearest port, but even that option failed as the roads of Europe became gridlocked. I’ve always taken air travel for granted but this was the first time I realised how dependent on it we are. Watching the world grind to a halt seemed surreal. I had the feeling I sometimes get commuting in the rush hour while thousands travel in the opposite direction; why does everybody always need to be everywhere else?

Monday morning saw us on the bus to Seville when we should have been back at our desks. We got quite a few texts congratulating us on the extended holiday, but the joke got old after half a day on a packed bus. In Seville we followed Brian and Gayle’s lead and bought train tickets to Madrid, booking hotel rooms as we would be arriving late. Madrid looked promising but I was too tired to explore it after a long day’s travel and went straight to bed. The hotel rooms had satellite TV so we could catch up on world news. The stories were the same everywhere – business and government paralysed except, apparently in Norway, where the Prime Minister was pictured running the country from his iPad. The saddest story was a report from a Kenyan farmer’s collective; they relied heavily on sending shipments of roses to Europe and now their entire summer’s livelihood was wilting in an aircraft hangar.

Next morning we spent four hours in a massive queue at Madrid station, wilting like Kenyan roses in the stifling heat. Once we confirmed we could actually get on a train to Santander, we booked hotel rooms near the ferry dock. The whole experience was proving very expensive although we did eventually get the return fare refunded by Monarch Airways. However we were still much better off than the British families we kept bumping into as they made the same trek across Spain as us. Most of them had no idea what to do when they reached Santander as the sailings were sold out. One couple with three small children said that if they couldn’t get on a crossing they’d schlep across to Bilbao and try their luck there.

Once in Santander I felt I could breathe out; we had our ferry tickets and could finally kick back and relax. Our hotel, the Central Ignacia, was eccentrically painted bright blue, which was handy when asking for directions as I couldn’t understand the local dialect. It was also only ten minutes’ walk from the port and in a busy area packed with shops and restaurants, so we had a chance to stroll around and shake out the kinks after two days of almost continuous travel.

Wednesday dawned, a gloriously sunny day. The ferry didn’t leave until late afternoon so we had plenty of time to check out this elegant and cultured city. I’d only been to the Costas before so my predominant impression of Spain has been one of concrete hotels slung up to accommodate British hen and stag parties. Santander remains unspoiled despite being a popular tourist destination and the hotels tend to be traditional and gracious. The shops and restaurants are upmarket and somewhat expensive, which I suppose helps to deter the party crowd. We took in an art exhibition before heading back to the beachfront for lunch. An impressive sight awaited us; a British warship, the HMS Albion, had arrived to take home stranded passengers and a long queue of hopefuls was forming, snaking along the seafront. Far out at sea, we caught a glimpse of our ferry coming in. We chose an al fresco tapas bar and settled back to enjoy the view.

The crew of the Albion were moving along the lines, prioritising disabled people and families with babies. People who weren’t chosen were becoming quite frustrated – understandable under the circumstances. I’m not sure I’d want to go home on a warship (although it makes a great story) because it looked very basic – they had rows of camp beds laid out on an open deck. Because there were no proper facilities for civilians the only way they could get wheelchair-bound people onto the deck was to carry them. As this was happening our ferry loomed into view. It took about three hours to disembark the inbound passengers and let us on. We stayed at the bar until the last moment as we already had reserved cabins.

The staff of Brittany Ferries couldn’t have been more helpful. They allowed a thousand extra people on as foot passengers and left the restaurant eating areas open all night so they could sleep on the comfortable banquettes. Elizabeth and I had a twin bed cabin – small but well appointed. On Friday morning we docked at Plymouth, almost a week later than planned. The information desk on the boat had done its homework and posted a list of travel options to London and the south. It was rather short; all trains were fully booked and a local airline was offering first come first serve flights to Gatwick for £50, but it had very limited capacity. It began to seem that we would have to try and get a B&B in Plymouth before all the other thousands pouring off the ferry had the same idea.  We’d lost sight of Brian and Gayle by now but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were first in the queue for cheap flights. Just then someone (he later introduced himself as Jim) came up to the information desk and said he could take two extra passengers to Reading in his delivery van.

As we drove off the ferry squeezed into the van, I could have hugged Jim. He had to take a convoluted route to make his various drop-offs, but the weather was wonderful and the countryside was breathtaking. It was election time and as we drove through different counties we would see the same light blue Conservative posters on hoardings and banners fluttering on telegraph poles; I hadn’t realised before how true blue Middle England really is. The vehicle was cramped but we were able to spread out as each delivery emptied it. In any case, it was so miraculous to be back on British soil, we might as well be riding in Cinderella’s carriage. I texted my manager that we were back in Blighty and on the way home in a furniture van – she thought it was hilarious. When we finally got back to work, the week’s lateness was written off as the whole ash cloud situation was unprecedented.

By the time Jim dropped us off at Reading, we’d traversed five counties – Devon, Somerset, Wiltshire, Reading and Berkshire. Driving past Chippenham, I saw the great sight of Stonehenge for the first time in my life. Jim took us right into the station, helped carry our bags in and refused to take any petrol money – the perfect gentleman. I’ve never been so happy to return from an alleged holiday, and the counties of England have never looked more picturesque. I wondered briefly why anybody would ever want to go abroad when dear old Britain has this much to offer.

First published in VISA 117 (August 2014)