Postcards From Spain (part 1)

Rubber ducks, bin men, and a giant chicken.

We last went to Menorca in 2022 and had a wonderful, unforgettable holiday. The Friday before we left, however, saw my most spectacular bubble burst of all time. Five minutes after I’d finished work, I rang Louise, who answered the phone in terrific spirits, singing “Holiday” by Madonna.

“Hi, um… so, I’ve just crashed into an Uber.”

She stopped singing.

Gladly, nobody was injured (in hindsight, I’m fairly confident it was an insurance scam), but a pranged car shakes you up and is VERY inconvenient. This time around, I took the train to work the day before.

Our flight was at 8 a.m., so alarms were set offensively early. As I climbed into bed, I had that awful thought which is occurring more and more frequently as middle age hurtles ever closer: “I could really do with sleeping well tonight. Therefore, I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t sleep at all.” Gladly, after two hours of tossing, turning, and trying to assure myself that lying down with your eyes closed is pretty much the same thing, I mercifully drifted off and got a reasonable four-hour shift in.

Organised as ever, Louise had bought the boys Minecraft magazines and building blocks to occupy them on the plane. Not wanting them to become social pariahs, we buckled and bought the computer game recently and, like every other child on the planet, they are now obsessed (this took approximately 90 seconds.) I had a quick go and had no clue what was going on or what I was supposed to do. Taking the iPad back from me, Joshua informed me I was “stuck in a hole,” which felt about right re. my attempts to keep up with modern life.

???

With the boys enthralled by square sheep, squids, and creepers, I kicked back with a coffee and some Pringles (Louise and I are convinced that Pringles taste worse these days. Has anyone else noticed this?) and read a few pages of my book, Sing Backwards and Weep by Mark Lanegan, a dark, drug-fuelled memoir about the Seattle music scene in the early 90s. Quite possibly the direct opposite of a holiday to the Royal Son Bou Family Club in Menorca in 2025.

Our taxi pulled up at the hotel in early afternoon sunshine, and we met Louise’s mum and sister, who’d arrived a few hours earlier. The boys were delighted to see them, then started charging around the foyer like lunatics. The primary cause of their excitement was not, as you might think, the swimming pool or the beach, but a vending machine selling complete tat multicoloured rubber ducks for one euro.

“Can we have a euro, please, Daddy?”

Here, I displayed some poor parenting that would come back to bite me.

“Okay. If you’re good, I’ll give you both one euro a day.”

After dumping our bags in the room, we stocked up on essentials, including two giant inflatables - a turtle and, in keeping with the theme, a duck - and got straight into the slightly-too-cold swimming pool. As the boys splashed around in the shallows, giggling, I was struck by a joyful realisation.

“Louise, do you… do you reckon we can sit on our deckchairs and have a drink if we keep a loose eye on them?”

“Yes.”

Now the boys are five and seven and, crucially, can swim, we have turned a corner, holiday-wise.

My first sip of ice-cold Estrella was delightful and, chatting with Louise’s mum and sister, I felt life’s stresses drifting awa…

“HELP, DADDY!”

Jacob had tumbled off his enormous inflatable duck, which was now drifting towards the deep end at pace, while he waved his arms maniacally, having apparently forgotten everything he’s ever learned at his swimming lessons.

Turning a corner.

In the evening, we headed to the hotel restaurant, an extravagant all-you-can-eat buffet with pretty much any food you can imagine. With it being ever-so-slightly within school term time (surely a couple of days off in Key Stage 1 won’t impact their career prospects too much?), most other families had younger children, and the atmosphere was pure, unbridled chaos. Babies bawling, cutlery clattering, and flustered parents offering one another flat smiles.

Now, this might make me sound like a bit of a prick, but I find it reassuring - ok, I quietly enjoy - seeing a beautiful, trendy young couple chasing after a small boy, whose face is covered in tomato ketchup, and trying (failing) to stop him from scooping up the communal paella with his bare hands.

Soon, like the rest of us, they will accept it’s over. It’s all over. Their sleeve tattoos will mean nothing, the dad will turn his cap the right way around, and their high-top trainers will be replaced with Crocs.

Parenting is one of life’s great levellers.

The evening entertainment involved a drums and bugle parade around the surrounding streets led by the hotel mascot, Kiko (a giant chicken, I think). With the band set up and ready to go, children gathered excitedly at the front of the hotel. Unfortunately, the local refuse collection team chose this exact moment to pull up on the street so the support act involved watching chain-smoking bin men in hi-vis jackets unloading bottles into massive, beeping trucks for what felt like several hours, while parents tutted and overtired children started crying.

To his great credit, Kiko and the marching band did not panic and, much like Radiohead’s performance at rain-drenched Glastonbury in 1997, overcame adversity to pull off a terrific spectacle (I would imagine this is the only time Thom Yorke has been compared to a giant Spanish chicken.)

From L to R: Hooky, Kiko and Cuqui (a really sound guy btw.)

After the boys went to bed (in large adult beds in a twin room, while I had to make do, once again, with a very, very thin sofa bed that was effectively a drawer - but I was ABSOLUTELY FINE about this because the kids come first...), I sat on the balcony with a beer.

Perhaps influenced by my book, I put on a playlist called “Grunge Forever” and was listening to “Man in a Box” by Alice in Chains (quite loud) when Louise came out to join me.

“What the hell is this music, Andy? Do you really think it’s appropriate?”

“Whatever, man,” I said, sulking. “Why do you have to be such a drag?”

I quickly apologised and, by the time Louise’s mum and sister had joined us for a drink, “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield was on.

“What a great first day, Louise!” I said as we were getting ready for bed. “I had a great day? Did you have a great day? What’s your favourite track on Nevermind?”

“Why are you talking so much, Andy? And so loud? How much have you had to drink?”

I considered this question for a second, stopped talking altogether, and folded myself into my drawer bed, where I fell soundly asleep until I arose at sunrise - disoriented - to the sight of a giant inflatable duck’s sinister, smiling beak centimetres from my face.

Absolutely f*cking terrifying.

*

Part 2 is here.

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Thanks for reading! Please do like/share etc., and feel free to share your memories from family holidays, Minecraft, or anything you fancy tbh!

Cheers!

Andy