Now, I left you in the concourse at Luton Airport, hiding from the accusatory eyes of a Wizz Air pilot and hoping that our plane would be repaired or replaced.
It was replaced and we departed for Northern Spain just shy of three hours late. We even got to sit together en flight. Not always a good thing but so early into our travels we were yet to have a Carmichaely spat.
The running passengers had failed to notice the back stairs and no, of course I didn’t. Years of practice have made it hard for queue jumpers to pass either Mr C or myself so we were first into the rear of the aeroplane.
The flight was uneventful if loud (constant advertising of scratch cards, electronic cigarettes and food) and the taxi ride to Begur equally incident free.
La niebla del mar, however, most unacceptable. I do not like fog/sea mist in any permutation and its appearance on holiday distressing in the extreme. It worries Mr Carmichael too. It’s not the fog that bothers him, not at all. It is the result of the fog he doesn’t like.
And that result is me moaning about the fog.
I know it’s a fault of mine. I’ve tried rehab. It didn’t work.
We made the best of it and thanks to Mr Ryan not for as long as we would have if the flight had been on time.
Mr Carmichael did some work (remember, this trip was only happening because of his up-coming conference in Barcelona). I read my book and drank gin and tonic. We had a lovely dinner and mumble bottles of vino down at the beach. It would have been churlish not to.
Oh and I explored the Parador Aiguablava, remembering corners I would photograph if and when the sun came out. I took some inside shots of the 1960’s paradise in the meantime.
The sun came out the next day. Mr Carmichael did some more work and I sun bathed. It would, I think, have been churlish not to.
Mr C joined me and my two new friends (he French and very manly, rugby league, and she an Aussie with a g.o.s.h and very long legs) for an hour or so between phone calls. By the time he’d been back to the room for his iPad and sunglasses (Luton Airport replacements) it was time for him to return to our room for a conference call. Thank heavens we had a lovely view (see previous post, photo 1). Every single room there does.
Because I have never been north of Barcelona and because there are places not on the Carmichael’s bucket list up that-a-ways I hedged my bets, looked at hundreds of pics on Trip Advisor et al and elected to stay in not one but two hotels before we hit the Catalonian capital.
Again we opted for taxi.
It’s a long story and not a very pretty one. I have alluded to Mr C’s driving ability (or lack there of) in previous posts but suffice it to say we keep the arguments bottled more securely with strangers behind the wheel.
We arrived elegantly late for check-in. Our room was not ready.
We were offered drinks. We accepted. It would have been churlish not to.
Further aspects can be seen in my previous post (photograph 2) Lovely.
We thought we were entitled to some nibbles as well and another drink each. We ordered them.
The receptionist was very pleased with the room she found for us. It was a mini-suite. I was not so pleased and became less pleased as I endured a sleepless night listening to the lift/elevator/acensor climbing and descending through the wee small hours.
I did not wake Mr C from his slumbers but had, in preparation for my’ we need to get another room’ speech counted the number of rooms that could see directly into our bedroom. Eighteen. Yes, we still had a sea view but we were angled, I guess, to fit the lift in.
“My wife’s very upset,” my ‘better’ half began. “She has had a sleepless night. We need to move.”
He’s good at this and with years of practice under his belt is getting better and better. Remind me to tell you about Las Vegas one day!
Anyway, the receptionist was very nice and although the hotel was full she said she would do her utmost to get us moved. Why, she suggested, did we not have some lunch on them?
We did. It would, I know, have been churlish not to.
Mr C had some phone calls to make and a rugby match to watch so I had a lovely day by the pool and moved onto the latest John Irving. An INT TER EST ING read.
It was very hot.
The receptionist rang us to say she would give us a free upgrade but we needed to come and see the proposition immediately. We went immediately, agreeing we wouldn’t accept it immediately because we had to keep them on their metaphorical toes.
We accepted it immediately. Although a little warm it was, my friends, the Executive Suite on the top floor with panoramic vistas of bloody everything. We were very happy.
Until we went in to change for dinner and our four rooms were still as hot as Hell on a hot day.
The air conditioning no functionar.
Many people got involved. I took some pictures. Everyone was very pleasant. The engineer was called out. He couldn’t fix it. We were delivered a bottle of champagne but couldn’t drink it because the suite was too hot. We explained this and it was suggested we have drinks on the terrace. On them. We accepted. It would, you must agree, have been churlish not to.
When we got back to the exceedingly hot Executive Suite we discovered they had left a window open. We spent very warm night with a couple of mosquitos as bed mates.
We were given a free night’s stay in the suite. I was in two minds if I actually wanted the air con to be fixed. I figured the hotel would soon be paying us.
It was fixed. The manager of the hotel so pleased for us and I guess for himself. He suggested some tapas bars in Palamós old town that he though we’d like. We did like.
What we didn’t like quite so much was Mr Carmichael leaving his second cap in the taxi.
So that’s one gone at Luton and now the blue one in Palemós outskirts.
“Why did you let me leave it there?” Mr C asked of me.
A stuttered silence followed by a Yours Truly outburst. How Dare He? If I’m his mother there would be some things he would not be enjoying any time soon.
“Ring him up,” I said. “His English wasn’t bad.”
It worked, the driver found the cap on the back seat, our taxi (and head wear return) thus booked for the next day. And an argument averted.
We managed to squeeze a wee one in later in the evening. Which made for an expensive (as my husband and a non English speaking taxi driver circled but couldn’t find me on the promenade) and a quite (not speaking) trip back to our newly freezafied Executive Suite.
Four days in, one minor fracas. That’s good going for Carmichael mère and père I promise.
We made up. In a cool top floor suite it would have been churlish not to.