The following post was originally written on Tuesday 11th October, the first full day of my recent trip to Majorca.

Also note, the inspiration for me writing this was spurred by Spanish Beer, I say this to excuse how poorly written this first post could end up being.

“There is an old woman swimming in the pool, in the pouring rain. She clearly gives no fucks.”

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Woke up in Majorca, how did I get here? Well I got here with 4 pints, a tiny plane and a long arse coach journey (which took longer than the actual flight). We arrived at our hotel on the Monday night, too late for dinner the hotel staff had prepared sandwiches, a small fruit salad and a yoghurt each. On top of that we had a tray of posh chocolate balls and a bottle of Cava which I am currently sat drinking on  my balcony… in the rain. Yes, rather unfortunately, the weather has now taken a turn for the “pissing it down,” which is shame considering we left Southampton Airport under the blazing October sun and clear blue skies. This seems backwards to me, I want my money back!

That’s not to say it’s been all doom and gloom. Our recent swim in the sea and sunbathing under a blistering star of flame 2 hours ago indicates that this drizzle is nothing more than a temporal blip of what promises to be a more traditional week of Majorcan weather. It doesn’t seem to be bothering the lone woman achieving her 20 lengths, seemingly unaware of the ever-increasing water level (Note, this would be the most I ever saw someone actually swim in the hotel pool all week).

The beach now lies empty, the once crowded view from our hotel balcony has dispersed to the two neighbouring cafes, welcomed by the alluring temptation of a half litre Sangria serving (as we were). The once calm sea now does battle with the opposing water bullet plummeting from the sky above. The victims of this war thrash against the hapless buoys, the remnants collapse onto the dark sand, only to be dragged back into the heart of battle and into the abyss.

Pause for another sip of Cava

Christ that was overly dramatic, but I suppose that can be expected by someone writing this on his 4th…5th drink of the day (It was probably 6th).

There is something oddly relaxing about sitting out, and drinking, on a balcony in the rain. Obviously we are covered , we are not sat as drowned rats with essence of rain water infusing our alcoholic beverage.

Our hotel is a peaceful resort and by peaceful I mean there is not a screaming child in sight. However, this means myself and my partner Sophie are now the youngest couple in this hotel by a country mile. At breakfast, the only space for us was a table sat next to an older couple. One the one hand, the overly British side of me took over, with the awkwardness akin to when you are forced to sit next to someone else on public transport (oh the humanity), but on the other hand we’re on holiday, and holiday is all about trying new things, such as trying to talk to other members of the human race. This was one of the benefits about being in a hotel full of older people, is that they all have interesting stories to tell. Whilst the husband was not overly talkative, vacating the table for a cigarette, we chatted with the wife, who was called Pat (Note, I only found out her name 15 minutes into the conversation, after coming to the realisation that one had not introduced oneself, most unorthodox!). We found out about previous family holidays to Majorca, where her daughter was badly behaved, but now she has grown up to teach Latin at a very Posh Girls School in London, she told us about her clever Grandson who hates school, and how her son-in-law moaned about driving them to the airport at 3am. She also found time to have a quick jab at Germans being grumpy at airports, because they lost the war…Yes Pat, because that must be the cause of any Germans grievances… Next time I vouch for eating in silence.

The rain has at last halted, but the black clouds still loom over us.

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The hotel residents have now all retreated to the lounge for todays 4pm quiz, which a woman was flapping about at reception earlier, as if her life depended on her getting the key from her room for  the mot deadly of weapons: a pen. She dashed up to her room, ready to retrieve her weapon of choice, as we could all but wish her luck on the treacherous quest ahead.

Having now read this out loud I come to realise just how much alcohol currently rests in my bloodstream… Oh well, as I will no doubt be saying as an argument for everything this week, I’m on holiday!

Dave

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