Package Holiday - beginning

Now that we've tried and tested both the Irish holiday and the independent option, Mr R has proclaimed that it is time to subject the family to a package holiday. The Irish holiday has henceforth been ruled out as being too expensive and too wet. Our experience to date has been one of imagining spectacular scenery through a fogged up windscreen with wipers hurtling furiously back and forth. 'Are we there yet?' begins before we escape the confines of our suburb, and were it not for the in-car DVD player the children would probably find themselves being hurtled out the window before we even reach the M50. Damage would of course be minimal as traffic on this particular 'artery' rarely reaches a crawl. Wine Goose is also happy to close this chapter. A particularly vivid memory of trying to scoop an uninspiring seafood chowder from lap to mouth squashed in a corner of a mediocre pub in the west of Ireland while all around her children devour yet another plate of nuggets and chips, not to mention having to open sachets of ketchup at a rate of knots, is enough to send her onto the next Ryanair flight out of the country, whatever the destination might be.

Coincidentally, the independent option did involve a Ryanair flight. Oh the joys of island life. We negotiate the mind-numbing queues for check-in and security; arrive at the gate warmed-up and limber, confident that we will make it onto the flight in time to secure four seats in a row. Luck plays a small part and we find ourselves on the tarmac with a slight advantage. We throw ourselves at the small dot of an aeroplane with the same fervour shown by those trying to scale the Berlin Wall. It's all going well and we arrive at the steps ahead of the posse. Then disaster strikes. Because we have not discussed who will be responsible for folding the buggy, and who will be responsible for loading the children onto the aircraft, we lose vital seconds. We can only look on in horror as passengers stream past us to grab the plumb seats. Even the shortest flight can be hell when a family is scattered.

So this time we take the easy option, push a few buttons on the computer, and before we know we are once again heading for Dublin airport, this time at the ungodly hour of 4.00 am. The streets are deserted but as we approach the airport roundabout it seems that end of the world is nigh. Endless queues necessitate bribing the children to behave; and by the time we reach our departure gate Wine Goose has already spend half her holiday money on sweet treats, bottled water and holiday reading material. The flight itself is uneventful and four hours later we arrive on the sunny island of Lanzarote. We are greeted by a rep with a strong north of England accent and a face that reflects many years of sun exposure, combined with regularly getting up in the middle of the night to stand in unventilated airports. Wine Goose immediately creates an imaginary history for her - escaped the monotony of an office job in an industrial town 20 years ago, met and married island boy, now freelances and has a wardrobe filled with brightly coloured blazers embroidered with the logos of all the tour operators in Lanzarote. Sometimes wonders how her life would have turned out if she'd returned home after her first season in the sun. The transfer to our apartment is mercifully short, as Wine Goose can only listen to so much advice on which hours to stay out of the sun, Spanish tummy and where to buy electrical products (ever hear of the Internet lady?).

The apartment isn't quite ready and so we spend the next couple of hours in the resort sticking out like sore thumbs - bedraggled, bad-tempered and overdressed. And that's just the children. Starting from this low base, the holiday is surely guaranteed to have some restorative effects. Wine Goose decides now is the time to start enjoying herself. She takes a seat at a shady table in the Poolside Bar, places an order for 2 portions of that international delicacy nuggets and chips, then pours her first glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol ($10.00 is in Ireland, half the price in another remote island off Spain). After the briefest of inspections of the label, Mr R too pours himself a glass. Vive les vacances or whatever the islanders say. Olé Olé.