Menorca (part 3)
Before dinner, I returned to the pharmacy for the third time. Only one woman was working and the man in front of me spent a remarkably long time trying on, asking numerous questions about, but ultimately not buying a pair of orthopaedic sandals. If we return to Son Bou next year, I’m pre-packing ibuprofen.
Gladly, the pain in my neck eased before the evening entertainment: balloon twisting and a mini disco. The kids’ club staff were excellent – energetic, cheerful, and patient (much like me, Louise would probably say.) However, I found myself in an unexpectedly deep conversation with the lady twisting balloons.
“Are you English?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“I was an au pair in England a few years ago,” she said while expertly crafting a balloon sword for Joshua. “The family were very dysfunctional. The dad was an alcoholic, and the mother was having an affair.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering if I’d just teleported back to work.
By the time she’d finished making a flower for Jacob, I had enough information for a social services referral. As we walked off, my head spinning, Joshua swiped his sword on a palm tree, and it popped. Tears.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make another!” the lady shouted after us.
“So,” she said as I pulled up a chair. “You’ll never guess what the grandmother was up to…”
The boys had a blast at the mini disco, grinning and bopping while the intense balloon twister (now dressed as a giant chicken) and her colleagues produced a synchronized dancing masterclass to “Agadoo.” It turned into a late-night, though, and at 8.15 pm, Jacob stopped moving, developed a vacant stare, and looked how I feel on day three of an Eastern European stag do. We picked them up and bundled them into bed.
Having barely left the complex since we arrived, we were at risk of becoming institutionalized and headed for a day trip to Mahón the following morning. Stood with us at the busy bus stop was a gang of local teenagers wearing thick hoodies and jeans despite the scorching sunshine. Taking their places on the back seats, they produced some speakers and started playing belligerently loud trap music to the delight of families with young children and retirement-age couples. One of the lads had a tattoo saying F*ck Love on his neck, although he did not appear to be following this mantra as he spent most of the journey passionately kissing a young woman.
Arriving in the town, I managed to wrestle Jacob into his buggy, and we had a relaxing stroll down cobbled streets, past pavement cafes and through the city square, before taking a slightly scary glass lift down to the harbour. After a recommendation from our Dutch friends, we’d booked a glass-bottom boat trip, something I haven’t done since I was a child on a family holiday to Majorca. Underwhelmed that the glass bottom was, in fact, just a small panel, I had whinged sufficiently to ruin the morning for everyone. Sorry, mum.
As we were waiting for the boat to leave the harbour, Jacob accidentally pushed his toy car off the side and, as it bobbed around in the water, burst into inconsolable tears.
“No! My racing car!”
A middle-aged English guy walking past saw the disaster and, for a second, appeared to be readying himself to jump in and retrieve it. Fortunately, such heroism wasn’t required as the woman running the excursion had a fishing net and managed to catch it. Thirty seconds after being reunited with it, Jacob had lost all interest in the car.
Mahón port is beautiful, and the boat trip was thoroughly enjoyable. At the halfway point, the anchor dropped, and we were invited to clamber down a ladder into a glass compartment.
“This is great,” I said to Louise as the boys stared at the fish, wide-eyed. “The glass-bottom boating scene has really improved since 1996, hasn’t it?”
When she didn’t reply, I noticed she had turned pale, her eyes were closed, and she was taking some short, sharp breaths. I don’t think she enjoyed the next hour.
Back on dry land, colour returning to Louise’s face, we ambled around town, grabbing pastries, and taking in the local sights. We veered further than planned and predictably lost our bearings, becoming panicky when we realized the return bus was in 15 minutes. Holding Joshua’s hand, I approached an elderly man.
“Do you know where the bus station is please?”
He shook his head, then said something in Spanish while I realized he smelt quite strongly of booze. Things then took a rather bizarre turn: on a wall behind the man, Joshua had spotted a lizard and pointed it out to us. The old man then picked up the lizard and kissed it before bursting into hysterical laughter.
“I like the lizard man, Daddy,” Joshua said.
“Me too, son.”
I did not pass any judgement on the lizard man’s life choices.
Meanwhile, Louise had asked a waitress, who did not kiss any reptiles, but spoke perfect English and pointed us in the right direction.
After a busy morning, the boys blissfully took a two-hour nap allowing Louise and I to sit on the balcony with a glass of wine.
“Ah, this is the life,” I said, opening my book. Over the week, I’d read exactly six pages. Holidays with children are different, aren’t they?
We spent the afternoon by the swimming pool where Joshua got talking to a little boy, also called Joshua. Sharing a name was the basis for a strong friendship and they got on famously, splashing around, racing down the slides, and telling people that they were both called Joshua with utter delight. Since becoming a parent, I have become a sentimental wimp and, seeing them playing together, I got a lump in my throat and contemplated the new friendships Joshua will make when he starts school in September. I then watched as he paddled over to his namesake and, for no reason whatsoever, shoved his head under the water. Fortunately, new Joshua found it hilarious and, if anything, the attack strengthened their rapport.
Our final day was scorching but we made good on a promise to take the boys to Menorca zoo. Aside from a lax policy on fence heights - an angry ostrich got too close – it’s decent, and the boys had a great time seeing the animals, splashing around in water fountains, and being treated to yet more plastic tat from a gift shop.
Nicely bookending the holiday, we met our friends for a final afternoon on the beach. While the children played with the inflatable whale and built sandcastles, I was making my own memories by nipping into our tent to secretly watch the Leeds game on a stalling internet stream (an astronomical phone bill is post-holiday Andy’s problem.)
“What on earth are you doing in there?!” Louise asked on my third trip.
“Just tidying up a bit…”
“Why are you shouting?”
Our return flight was delayed by an hour so we softened the blow by spending 32 euros on two baguettes, some crisps, a pastry, and two coffees. I was manning Jacob on the plane, and I don’t think he sat still for a second. When Louise handed him a pile of rice crackers, he deliberately slammed shut his fold-out table and crushed them to pieces. After I’d finished scrabbling around on the floor picking up the crumbs, he rewarded me by telling me he’d done a poo.
Arriving back at Leeds Bradford Airport, we reflected on a terrific holiday. Menorca is stunning, the hotel was spot on, and the boys had the time of their lives. That said, there hadn’t been much by way of relaxing and we were shattered.
“We need another holiday to get over this one,” I said to Louise.
We then passed the queue to airport security which was even longer than it had been a week ago and was now spilling out of the main entrance, everyone looking extremely pissed off.
“Actually, sod that. Let’s go home.”
The End
***
Thank you! If you’ve read all three parts, I massively appreciate it and hope you’ve enjoyed it. Please take a second to like my Facebook page here or follow me on Instagram here.
Part One is here.
Part Two is here.
If you want to delve into my back catalogue, here are a few other pieces:
