Part 7 and finally......

Finally the day has come when we can make the long journey home.  We set out on the bus and collect our Scottish friends from the next resort.  This time Bill looks like a different man, bright-eyed, bushy tailed and sober.  We chat and compare notes on our experiences of Cuba. They claim the food was awful and all the flies in Cuba inhabited their resort. Really?

We stood in the check-in queue in Havana airport and watched as the check-in staff rested, ate their lunch, ignored the fact that our flight departure time had long gone and occasionally checked someone in.  We departed two hours late and it was the first time I have seen passengers burst into spontaneous applause when the stewardess shut the door!

I was squashed in a centre seat between two rather large gentlemen, one of whom had a very productive nose-blowing technique.  In fact, several people on the flight were obviously very unwell, one chap nearby had a terrible cough and was using his sick bag as a spittoon.   Somewhat inevitably, a couple of days after arriving home, I was ill for a week.

I don't have the heart, dear reader, to take you through the entire horrendous journey home.  You'd hate it and I don't think I could live through it again.   Suffice it to say, it took 24 hours in total, about five of which were spent queuing.

We eventually touch down in Malaga, I only wish we could have exited the plane the old fashioned way, down a flight of steps, so that I could have kissed the tarmac in a Popesque-stylie.  I have never been so glad to be home.

exhausted but happy to be home

Our humble home appears, to me, like a palace.  Our house sitter has kept the place immaculate and our plants alive.  The dog is overjoyed to see us.  I vow there and then, no more economy long haul flights.

I don't think we will book another secret escapes all-inclusive special offer-type holiday again.  They are all well and good, it's us that is the problem.  I realise now that we have reached a peculiar stage in our lives regarding holidays.  We're too old to go backpacking in Tibet, I loathe camping and we don't like to be told what to do.  We hate forced jollity, and don't want to learn Salsa. Maybe being too long in the tooth to fall for the odd con or tall story means that we also miss out on some adventures.  The stupid things we did and the risks we took in our younger days often resulted in some hilarious detour or memorable party.  Am I turning in to a miserable old git?  Answers on a postcard please.  Maybe we should just wait a few years, buy matching trainers and khaki shorts and go visit ancient monuments around the world.  We might fit in there.

The final word must go to Air France - I spit on your croissants.