“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Or so they say. Ours began when despite being told I would probably have most of July and August off Annette found us a holiday for the first two weeks in September. Now as it happens, it was a good holiday destination but, I was not over impressed with the transportation.
For reasons known only to themselves, Thomas Cook flights from Manchester to Cancun took over 10 hours and followed a route that made me think they were protecting WW2 convoys. Firstly, for reasons never encountered with ‘Vichy Airlines’, you have to be at the departure point 3 hours before departure, even if you check in online. However, as the flight was due to leave at 0900 this meant getting there for 0600 and left (in theory) plenty of time for a Weatherspoons breakfast. A good plan as it meant I could get my first bacon fix.
We had found a parking garage at Wythenshawe, about 15 minutes from the airport, which it turned out no satnav will recognize its existence from its postcode. We had a message from the garage of this fact and were warned it took us to an Asda car park behind them, so we were forewarned. Big mistake was not setting off early enough – allowing 90 minutes for a short trip up the M6 is certainly wishful thinking. A good 70% of the route was under repair by invisible men so the journey took closer to 2 hours and then we missed the garage on first attempt but, realised we were at the poxy Asda and could see where we had to go.
Transfer to airport was a doddle and we even made a note of where we were to be collected from on our return (not getting caught out like that again). Now this is where modern air travel could learn a lot from Casablanca. Rik can actually see the plane from the departure lounge without binoculars but, not so the modern traveler. We had a hefty route march from the entrance to what appeared to be the most obscure corner of the airport they had. Of course you had to go up one set of lifts to go back down another set at the other end.
I think it was about 0800 by the time we got to the baggage weigh in desk, and there was quite a queue but, it went pretty smoothly and we got to the hand luggage check point by about 0830. Obviously I wasn’t going to get any bacon. Just to make sure we missed breakfast, we had the most hyped up inspection of personal baggage I have ever experienced in over thirty years of flying. We were even made to place Asthma inhalers in plastic bags.
The number of passengers who were rejected, including us, was approximately 80% and by the time this mess was sorted Annette just about had time to by a 1/3 of Vodka to calm her nerves before we boarded the flight (now scheduled for 0930 departure). We then had our first announcement: “..we are not sure where the driver has gone, but our tow has diapered so we anticipate a thirty minute delay before we can be moved to the runway…” This gave me a little time to take in the A30 Airbus. On first inspection it didn’t seem too bad although I noticed the aisle were still very narrow which would mean one trolley would cut off access to the rest of the plane. Leg room didn’t seem too bad but, I found the seats to be lacking in comfort. Given the age of the A30 I imagine it had once been very comfortable but, some thirty years of fat arses had long since knocked the padding out of the seats.
This I think, is a, a growing trend with Tomas Cook holidays. I’ve been on two and in both cases the aircraft seating as been poor as the capabilities of the on site representatives. I have spoken to others who have used TC and they too have agreed the flights are less than expected from a ‘top line’ travel agency. Nevertheless, I was impressed with a block of ten toilets, located in the lower deck, that meant less delays and a little exercise walking to and from.
We took off some 40 minutes late but, weighed up against a predicted 10 hour flight is was nothing to worry about. I hoped to sleep most of the way there but, could not really get comfortable. I dare say I dozed off more than once but, spent most of the journey watching films, TV or listening to classic pop music. You should really take note TC – Take That and Boyzone are NOT classic pop music.
The choice of films and TV shows was pretty grim and people were encouraged to upgrade for a mere fist-full of pounds Sterling to a much wider selection. I growled my decline and tried to sleep. First meal arrived and I selected the chicken on the grounds it would be the hardest to cock up. I am not a fan of airplane food. Well, I can honestly say the small cube of chicken flesh was eatable. if a tadge bland, but the unidentified goo that came with it was not. Even Annette left that well alone. It may well have been some hippy gunge but, I would not have fed it to a starving dog.
I occasionally glanced at the flight tracker screen and was reminded of the journey through the Dudley Tunnel: you could see the exit but, never seemed to get any closer. Not long after they closed the downstairs toilet blocks – I guess somebody tried to flush their Chicken dinner down the pan. This meant the whole of the peasant section was reduced to one lonely toilet, normally reserved for the cabin crew, at the very rear of the plane. Not too bad, it meant queues but a nice stroll there and back – if you could get past the drinks trolley.
They eventually got the bogs working again but, then Annette got alarmed because she saw the pilot walking out into the seating area. I told her we not only had a co-pilot but, also auto pilot on board and it was nothing to worry about. Then the co-pilot appeared and she started worrying again. I guess the Vodka had worn off. I calmed her down by telling her I’d seen Airplane and it was just some hysterical woman at the back of the plane getting a good slapping.
Not long after that, they announced that there was a smell of electrical burning and that all entertainment systems would have to be turned off for the remaining three hours flight. Still we had another pile of bloby food to get through before landing. How bad could it be? It was along three hours. Eventually we arrived and had completed one immigration form but, as the announcement system was all distorted (probably do to the flames leaping out of the speakers) I didn’t hear the instructions on the custom form. Nothing unusual there as I am pretty Mutton Jeff.
Anyway, we got off the plane to blazing sunshine and I put my coat in the hand luggage as we joined the queue for immigration. Half asleep as I was I noticed everyone else filling out another form, which Annette insisted we didn’t need to until the nice customs officer sent us back to get one. Even though the customs officer insisted on all baggage being opened the searches were nothing compared to the hyped-up Mancunians.
It felt good to be back on my feet and able to walk and we got to the transfer coach without any difficulty. At this point I noticed that Spanish is a very quickly spoken language as our guide rapidly explained about the journey to the hotels. I was glad to hear her say we were the first drop off point although, the rest was not comprehended at all. She could have warned us that the bus driver was a terrorist and intended to blow us all up, it would have made no difference.
So we arrived at hotel Valetin Imperial, equipped with a drive about the distance from 182 Wellington Road to the top end of Bilston. It was posh and I felt out of place. In fact I felt that way for about ten days but, more of that latter. We had the luggage taken to our room, simple check in (free drink of course) and then got told where to go for the internal taxi service to our rooms. We had arrived.