Menorca (part 2)
The hotel restaurant opened at 6 pm and we headed down early, eager to tuck into the buffet. Unfortunately, we’d forgotten about the time difference and were greeted with locked doors, cue a testing hour trying to distract two hungry boys and, dare I say it, a wife showing signs of hangriness. We got 10 minutes out of a hall of mirrors in the foyer, then briefly paddled in the swimming pool before resorting to YouTube and wine.
When the doors eventually opened, I realized I’d left my flip-flops by the pool. The concierge shook his head and pointed at a sign featuring a bare foot with a thick red cross through it. I said I’d fetch them but, like a bouncer reluctantly making an exception to a strict dress code policy, he quickly ushered me in, whispering, “Tomorrow. Shoes.” After my run-in with the naked people on the beach, I was now the one showing too much flesh. How the tables had turned. Louise was unimpressed (“I’m embarrassed to be associated with you, Andy.”)
Jacob has a few allergies, but the hotel staff were great, and the chef prepared specific meals for him, as well as sorting him out with dairy-free ice cream. The main buffet was a terrific spread - seafood, pizza, paella, fresh fruit and veg, and an incredible array of desserts - but the all-you-can-eat factor pushed my discipline to its limits. Gladly, I managed not to repeat a fateful night at a Chinese buffet in Leeds circa 2005 when I ate so much sweet and sour pork that I was physically sick.
With toddlers and babies making up a large percentage of the clientele, it was not the most relaxing vibe but, with most guests in the same boat, there were plenty of knowing smiles and a non-judgemental approach to crying, shouting, picking up communal noodles with bare hands (Joshua) and charging headfirst into a waitress’ knee (Jacob.)
On Wednesday night, I was given a pass out to watch the football with my mate in an Irish-themed pub. Culture vulture. Although Leeds got hammered by Chelsea, it was brilliantly surreal being out together on a balmy Balearic evening, and we had a lovely time, supping sangria and chatting with a chain-smoking Celtic fan who was in a foul mood despite having just watched his team win the league.
“It counts for nothing if Rangers win the Europa League,” he said, frowning. “I hate Rangers!”
A glass half empty kind of guy, I suspected.
Later, we were approached by a spectacularly inebriated woman from the Midlands. After a few minutes of holiday small talk, the mood changed when, entirely out of context, she informed us that she was having an affair with a postman.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“We sometimes have sex in his van.”
I nearly spat my drink out. Why was she telling us this? Also, where do you go from there?
“So, um, has anyone been on the glass bottom boat trip?” I asked and the conversation soon petered out. On receiving a: “Where are you?” (no kiss) text from Louise, I made my excuses and unsteadily ambled back to the Royal Son Bou, contemplating the unprofessional Midlands postman. Is that a sackable offence?
I’d had exactly one too many drinks. Therefore, Jacob was onto me and at 5.30 am, he started shouting, “Daddy! Daddy! Where are you?”
The drawer.
With bleary eyes, a thick head, and concerns I may have cricked my neck, I rolled out of my drawer, got him from his cot, and brought him in with me. I’d ambitiously hoped he might go back to sleep but, instead, he looked me straight in the eyes, then headbutted me.
“Ow!” I shouted, eyes streaming, checking my nose for blood.
“Shhh, Andy!” Louise snapped.
“Was that really funny, Daddy?” Jacob asked, looking delighted.
“No, Jacob, it was not.”
The commotion woke Joshua up and I begrudgingly accepted there would be no more rest. The day had begun. The two hours until breakfast crawled by but, on the plus side, I avoided any further assaults. Following two coffees and a pile of pastries, I livened up sufficiently for the boys’ pony ride, something they’d been looking forward to immensely. On the way to the meeting point, we passed our friends.
“Morning, how’s it going?” Louise asked.
“Not good,” my pal’s wife said, glowering at him. “We were late for our pony ride, so we’ve missed it.”
Does it make me a bad person that, in my pal’s low moment, my first thought was that I might score some underhand points from Louise for not missing our pony ride? Terrible, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s not how these things work; Louise, instead, became re-annoyed with me for having had too much to drink with him. Fair.
It was a baking hot day and we had to wait slightly (far) too long for the boys’ ponies to arrive. As we were hanging around, sweating, we got talking to a delightful Dutch family. Despite the heat, Joshua and Jacob were in good spirits, rummaging around for insects on the floor.
“Look at this,” Jacob said, picking up an ant and showing it to everyone with pride.
“Aw, that’s so sweet!” the nice Dutch lady said while we all beamed.
Jacob then squeezed the ant too hard, and it stopped moving. I took it from him and carefully placed it under some leaves.
“Is it sleeping, Daddy?” Joshua asked.
“Yes, Joshua.”
Nobody spoke for what felt like an eternity.
“So, um, has anyone been on the glass bottom boat trip?” I asked.
The pony ride itself, in the hills behind the hotel, was a success and the boys loved it. However, Joshua’s pony, who I was guiding, kept trying to dart off in the wrong direction. He was strong and every time he yanked his head away, I felt a searing pain in my neck. By the time we’d got back to the apartment, I was in agony. Lesson learned: sleeping semi-drunk in a drawer, being headbutted, then trying to steer a volatile pony is bad for your neck. Who knew?
Pre-cricked neck. Arguably one too many buttons undone…
I assessed that ibuprofen was required and rummaged around until I had 5 euros in coins.
“Can I look at the funny money, Daddy?” Joshua asked.
“Sure, son,” I said and handed him a euro.
He glanced at it for a second, then hurled it off the balcony.
After a long and painful hobble to the local pharmacy, I was informed that ibuprofen cost 4.70 euros. I coursed under my breath and repeated my steps. By the time I'd returned, the shutters were down. Closed for 3 hours for siesta.
Wonderful.
To be continued…
***
Thanks for reading! Part Three is here.
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Part one is here.
