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 21st 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)
