GATWICK AIRPORT - May 1994
Dear All
Time to kill at Gatwick so I’ve picked up my pen.
Change has been an on-going theme today. The fare to Gatwick from Victoria had increased but the train seemed cleaner and the ticket collector in smarter uniform. He smiled and asked me for an additional £1.50, I was unwittingly on the new Gatwick Express! He gave me a brief history of railway privatisation and ultimately waved aside my £10 note.
Arrived to find upheaval at Gatwick South terminus, the queues seemed longer, security tighter as facilities had been extended. One attractive innovation on the concourse, a large upturned silver-plated breast, water trickling down from the nipple into a circular wishing well, the central feature of a blue carpeted spiral staircase, very calming amidst the cries of small children trapped in parents’ arms queuing for a flight to New Zealand.
What determination, have just seen a man with both feet in plaster propelling himself about in a wheel chair. Oh, and just remembered that I’ve forgotten to post you a postcard with my travel dates. Went in search of a post box but all I could find was a Postman Pat van being ‘driven’ by a small child. Apparently they’re not allowed for security reasons. A nice Aussie security guard, looking the other way, said quietly, ”I’ll post it. Leave it on my desk.” Wonder if it will arrive?
Walked miles to reach the plane. I was lucky. At the check in I’d requested a non-smoking window seat on the left of the plane, either infront or behind the wing. The very smart Japanese British Airways employee looked at me coolly and asked, “Is there anything else, madam? There are no requests, seats are allocated by staff, this is a charter flight.” However, I was gifted the seat I wanted, ideal for viewing home and Haringey from the air. Alas, a couple of tired, noisy kids are installed behind me. Time to get engrossed in a Walt Disney film, lovely colours on the screen.
The captain has just announced that we’re all ready for take off – but – a panel on the wing has to be mended, the new part has been sent for…..Two women alongside me, looking like my contemporaries, are discussing rose gardens and work gossip…..twenty minutes later the ‘co-ordinating hostess’ announces that she has ordered ‘delay packs’, the film ‘The Secret Garden’ will begin shortly, (alas the screen is too distant for me to see) and the toilets may be used.
The plane is now a hive of activity. Wonder whether I’ll get to see Haringey in daylight? About one hour after our scheduled take off time the captain announces, “ There will be another two hour delay, if you wish you may go and stretch your legs in the Terminal” Mutiny smoulders on board as a mass exodus begins, ‘The Secret Garden’ plays on.
I finally moved down the gangway following the masses out of the plane. The stewards looked glum, and even glummer as a senior hostess rushed in clutching a walkie talkie, “I knew this would happen! I bet some will have headed back to the Main Terminal for a beer. People can be paged in this section but not there!” Gatwick is a ‘silent’ airport.
Noticed ‘The Atlanta Journal’ left lying unwanted on a seat. Brought back memories of a transit at Atlanta for a flight to Chattanooga Tennessee to visit friends a long time ago. Flicked through the Journal, ‘Seven killings since Sunday’, ‘Teen’s Jailing for Racist Cursing’. Move on to brighter things.
Relax in beautiful new departure lounge with a wonderful view of our stranded Caledonian plane named after a Scottish Loch, why did it ever try to fly? A couple of English wits alongside are giving a running commentary Monty Python style of crew movements in and out of the aircraft. Small children are rushing up and down becoming highly excitable and babies scream, sounding unwell.
Noticed some activity at the far end of the group, instructions have arrived to go and collect a voucher for refreshments. Departure time now anticipated at 10.00pm.
Trekked miles back to the first departure lounge to collect a £3.50 voucher. Burger King was out of burgers, the Sandwich Bar was reduced to croissants so Garfunkels was buzzing with the sudden influx of clients. The poor waitress, Italian, was running with orders and getting many wrong, £3.50 stretched to a salad.
We were called like pigeons at 9.00pm, the senior hostess obviously intent on getting the flock reinstalled by 10.00pm. There was a mass detour to the ladies during transit. Someone in the cubicle alongside me announced her intention to take a bog roll to Spain. Out came a little middle-aged lady dressed in a pale grey satin tracksuit and new white plimsolls looking unlike a bog roll snatcher.
The Caledonian plane finally repaired we took off into the darkness and two hours later the sprinkled light of tiny villages began to appear below. Spain, but where exactly? Oh that we were flying in daylight four hours earlier. We landed safely and emerged into the warmth of Malaga airport. Endless marble corridors decorated with patterned tiles leading to the luggage collection.
We finally emerged from the airport to a find travel reps and coaches each waving their company flag.
Soon found red for Cosmos and climbed into our coach, Club Med, Thompsons and Air Tours also collecting their groups. Suspect we’ll be following each other for the week.
A great relief to have Mother Cosmos looking after me, wouldn’t fancy hotel hunting at this point, no young men touting for business just travel reps frantically searching for lost passengers. Ours has just announced that he’s missing eleven, should have been on this flight to transit for Morocco. He’ll give them a few minutes more.
It’s 2.00am, 3.00am Spanish time. An old lady infront is complaining it’s past her bedtime.
Gary our travel rep/tour guide has just introduced himself and Alphonse the driver. Our dinner is awaiting our arrival. Now details about the 8.00am boat to Morocco next morning. Others on a flight from Glasgow are also supposed to catch this boat. There’ll be an alarm call at 7.00am. Not a groan was heard.
Alphonse finally drove us the short distance to Torremolinos, a sprawl of lights, high rise buildings with balconies, presumably near the sea, and the Hotel Flamingo. Discovered that my earlier concern about a roommate, single occupancy much more expensive, was unfounded, I had single style matrimonial bed to myself. Feeling exhausted, this was a relief.
The luxury in my Flamingo bathroom, the design on the small packet of soap, a golden flamingo poised regally on a gold and black background surrounded by red, black and gold chrysanthemums, on the reverse side, a wonderful flamenco dancer in a red dress. And peering beyond the room curtains, six floors below sparkled a large swimming pool backed by the neighbour’s tall pine trees with a skyline of tall white tower blocks standing out in the darkness.
Alongside these delights, the worst thing in my bathroom, a toilet that failed to function. Fortunately, the system of ballcocks is as European as my new passport.
Found my way to breakfast my mind in as grey a haze as the weather beyond my window. The word on the yellow T-shirt of a German woman sitting opposite summed it up ‘SUMMER’.
People were packed and now worrying around their cases in readiness for the 10.00am departure. Then came the first announcement of the day, “We’re waiting for a plane to arrive from Glasgow. You’re free till 12.00.”
I headed off in search of the sea down narrow alleyways stuffed with shops selling T-shirts, trinkets and leather goods interspersed with the more routine purchases of domesticity. There are lots of villas and apartments for rent amidst the large hotels.
Although the buildings are primarily rectangular blocks of inconsequential design there’s a feeling of light and airiness punctuated by unexpected sprays of flowers or a brightly coloured fresco.
Found the sea a quarter of a mile below the hotel, the beach neatly laid out with sun beds. The sand was grey and the water invitingly cool. Received a polite “Buenos dias”, from local men laying out cushions and cleaning the beach. Sunbathing obviously starts late although it’s now 11.00 am.
Here a lot of Italian being spoken though quite why they should come here when they have Rimini I don’t know, also a lot of French and German. The English must be clustering back at the coach. Alongside others newly arriving on the beach my skin is winter pale, others range from honey gold to deep tan. The message of skin cancer risk has not yet reached this strip of the Mediterranean.
Back at the Ladies in the hotel talk focuses on someone in our Cosmos Group who couldn’t fly into Malaga last night because of fog and was diverted to Seville. Apparently the taxi drivers at the airport wouldn’t let the Cosmos coach in to pick up the lone passenger. Territorial rights. No mention yet of those flying from Glasgow .
The Tour Guide has just asked his right hand woman Jenny whether she has ‘The Bible Sheet’ for the group? I guess they’re praying that the hotel will prepare a Delayed Banquet ready for lunch. People are looking tired and are beginning to get irritable. The coach driver has just gone off for a coffee.
If Michael Palin had set off on his Around the World Trip with Cosmos and British Caledonian he’d still be travelling. With so much delay I wonder whether we’ll reach Gibraltar?
12.30 and we’re off, no lunch. Raymond, our Guide, apologies for the delay. The eleven holiday makers travelling to Morocco flew in at 7.00am, the group from Glasgow at 11.00 so now our group complete, the holiday begins!
Left Torremolinos and drove back along the coast towards Malaga. Surprised to find hazy hills on the horizon, I’m ignorant of Spanish geography. Also, surprised to find that Malaga is not a seaside resort like Torremolinos but a thriving industrial centre with the largest port in Spain. Although the buildings were in the now familiar blocks, laid out with Roman regularity, the colours , oranges, ochres, creams, shades of sand were soothing and aerated by individual choice of balcony decoration. Venetian blinds, green sunshades, glass surround, flowers, laundry, definitely a sense of the individual amidst the bustling conformity.
Passed some lovely old municipal buildings with red tiled roofs and ornamental stucco, bougainvillea trailing over them, the perfume of pale mauve jacaranda blossoms wafting from gardens…..A Japanese family has just driven past in a jangling horse cart. Memories of the same in Luxor.
The coach stopped in Malaga port, we’re given half an hour to look around. After fifteen minutes I was already too hot.
A young woman has just whizzed past on a scooter, smartly dressed in shiny black trousers, a tailored beige jacket and and white shirt beneath shining, beautifully cut black hair.
En route again winding through the back streets of Malaga to avoid the traffic jams of the centre. It’s 1.00pm too hot to work, shops are closing, people are heading home for the siesta. I could do with a siesta but we’re not stopping until we reach Grenada, arrival scheduled for 5.00, or 5.30, or maybe 5.45, memories of the Spanish attitude to time filter back. Schools have closed too, children are wandering home dressed in neat grey, navy and white uniforms, very definitely uniform
Despite the heat there is lots of fresh greenery all around palm trees and bushes of dusky pink, red and cream hibiscus but my attention now switches to Raymond our guide whose issuing the Coach Rules. “Those seated on the left move forward two seats daily, those on the right will move back.” It sounds like training for the pasa doble. “Please keep the arm rest down. Don’t want you nodding off and falling into the aisle, that can happen very easily. No hamburgers, chips, ice cream allowed on board”. A coach-proud guide!
Just realised that we’re travelling in convoy, within the coach. Some of the group of Americans are continuing to Portugal.
Passed a cemetery on a hillside, white gravestones standing side by side crammed within a surrounding wall, a miniature town with an intensity in death so far not sensed in life.
Raymond warned us not to get dehydrated in the unaccustomed heat, water bottles are allowed on board. He then went through a string of safety regulations as though we were on a plane.
Yellow is the predominant colour of the hillsides, brilliant yellow gorse bushes, soft yellow mimosa flowers just beginning to burst from grey green feathery bushes, an unexpected field of the ubiquitous European crop oilseed rape. Then fringed orchards of olive trees neatly laid out alongside occasional deep gold fields of barley sprinkled with red poppies, and wheat fields similar to England though here on much more mountainous terrain.
It was a great relief to stop for lunch in a futuristic services with restaurant, shop and garage. The Spanish version of that ubiquitous message on motorways in Wales ‘Gwasenaethau’. Tucked into a limp salad, marginally more expensive than that back at Garfunkels and, as a slice of tomato passed my eye, a memory of Egypt came to mind, that warning, “In a hot country don’t eat anything which hasn’t been cooked.” Maybe I’ll be ‘faded’ tomorrow.
Raymond, having given details of the additional optional tours which could be taken at our future destinations, all costing thousands of pesetas extra, was working his way around the coach taking orders for the various tickets. All set to use the hoard of remaining cash on my American Express credit card when discovered it was the most difficult card for use with Cosmos. Damn!
Raymond has just announced that the Hotel Don Juan is a very nice hotel but since we’re two coaches that infront of us arriving first will fill it. However, we too are going to a very nice hotel, The Hotel Raleigh, four star, only I cheered.
Approaching Grenada we travelled across a plain, very green with plantations of young trees and passed a turning to Santa Fe where Queen Isabella gave gold to Columbus as he prepared to head off across the Atlantic Ocean.
The Sierra Nevada range, currently obscured in a grey haze, has been chosen for the next Winter Olympics. I hadn’t realised that Spain is the second most mountainous country in Europe after Switzerland.
There are lots of white and orange villas amidst the greenery. They reflect the colour of the most popular crop, onions. Buildings here are much more low level than Malaga, there’s a different feel to the place already.
Well, this hotel is very different from the last. Its simple green and white soap packet has none of the grandeur of that in the Flamingo but, in all other ways, the situation is reversed.
The Hotel Rallye is new, decorated in a theme of greens, cream and white with attractive modern paintings gracing the walls. I’m writing this at my desk, a TV is waiting to relieve any boredom and a double bed is waiting to encompass my fatigue. The bathroom is all that one could desire in sparkling white and chrome. Maybe I should import some of their shining cleanser…..
…..I went out for a stroll but the heat got to me before I’d gone very far so sat in a pavement café and watched the world go by. It was busy, lots of cars, lots of people. The T-shirt seems to be the most popular garment, coats are non-existent. This is where the ‘romantic’ part of the trip begins, young couples kissing on park benches, fingering faces over long drinks. Boys and girls playing football together in a quiet square.
I think there must be a ratio between the dust level on trees and the depth of sun tan. It’s hard to imagine that winter happens in Grenada, have even seen signs of air conditioners lurking high on beautiful new brick buildings. This is certainly more affluent and sophisticated than Malaga.
Back at the hotel decided to relax in my room with TV, twelve channels to choose from including live bull fighting! Spain does have national characteristics much as England has cricket. The arena was vast, reminiscent of the gladiator forum in Rome, with two concentric circles drawn towards the outer rim, presumably to warn men and bulls of certain danger zones. Around the outer walls were several small walls, reminiscent of an old fashioned French pissoire but actually the modern shield of the toreadors, picadors and matadors. Couldn’t actually work out who was what since they were all concerned with the toro, wanting to stick their pickets in it, wanting to see it as dead as a door mat.
Their costumes were exquisite, intricately embroidered gold or silver on pale blue or red, their movements as graceful as ballet dancers, as vicious as a Soho killing.
The men with twirling yellow and magenta capes used them to infuriate the bull and had it charging all over the arena after them. The aim seemed to be to gouge a hole in its neck, as though trying to skewer it like a kebab. The men with two pickets aimed to stick them in solidly, similarly the man on horseback, whilst trying to manoeuvre the horse to avoid it being upturned and crushed by the bull’s horns.
The bull’s blood flowed out in increasing profusion whilst the crowd cheered as the men with capes danced closer and closer to the bull without getting touched , the ‘pasa doble’ the significance of that dance suddenly becoming apparent, ended when the bull fell, defeated by sword and a final butcher’s knife killing it off. It was gruesome and yet, listening to it without viewing, it could have been a Wimbledon Men’s Final or an important football match.
I think we might have had bull steak for dinner, it was tough, definitely not a four star meal but fellow travellers were very friendly.
It might be friendly to try to chat to some Spanish people.
Scan my Phrase Book for some conversation openers:
Hola : Hello
Por Favor: Please (Memories of Manuel in ‘Fawlty Towers’)
Gracias : Thank You
Buenos Dias : Good Morning
Buenas Tardes : Good Afternoon
Buenas Tardes : Good Evening
Como esta? : How are you? (Formal)
Como esatas? ; How are You (Informal)
Odd – In Spanish, a question actually begins with an upside-down question mark, the same for an exclamation mark.
A thought to sleep on!
PHOTOGRAPHS ? I did take some but where are they now??
GOOGLE : Andalusia
__________________________________________________________________________________Next Week - Andalusia Part 2 (of 3)
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