…and ending up all-inclusive under a volcano

All-inclusive. Except it isn’t.

The wine, for example. At the buffet lunches and dinners, it comes on tap – low alcohol (‘spring harvest’) red, white or rosé, along with weak but refreshing beer on draft. You can get a glass of ‘house Cava’ but a bottle will cost you €7, which let’s face it isn’t much at all. But there isn’t a great deal of fizz or heft in the sparkling grape juice they call cava here. I’ve had a bigger hit from Irn Bru. A decent bottle of Rioja is €18, discounted to €15 for AI clients at the Alua Soul Orotava Hotel in Puerto de la Cruz, Tenerife, booked through Jet 2 Holidays. 

The orange juice at breakfast being horrible watery stuff, you can order a glass of freshly squeezed for €3. And while some cocktails are included in the Jet 2 deal, you have to choose carefully. I have no idea if the elderly English couple ordering sex on the beach for two had to pay, as I fled in embarrassment at the expression on the barman’s face.

We are here on a last-minute deal flying from Glasgow after our long-planned and paid for two week trip to Rhodes and the Aegean with pals foundered, literally as we were about to board the aeroplane at Manchester’s godless and shambolic airport. Susan’s passport had been issued in February 2016. It was still valid for five months as it had been renewed early, but EU rules since Brexit mean a passport has to be within 10 years from the date of actual issue, or you can’t travel. And so the woman from Air Aegean was firm: Dr Bowie was not getting on the plane. I was already heading for my seat when the commotion broke out behind me.

“Do you wish to stay with your wife?” I think the stewardess was joking. Anyway, our luggage was retrieved and various options laid out: We could fly out and join the tour (it was a  seven-day wander around historical sites with a week of beach sunning to finish) if Susan could get an emergency passport within two days. After that, we couldn’t join the trip. But emergency passports are issued under strict guidelines: family illness and the like. Emergencies, not  misreading of the Evil Cameronian Brexit  rules. And anyway, Liverpool, the nearest passport office, wasn’t a viable option.

RSD Travel, organiser of the tour, wouldn’t budge on letting us join a week late. Apply to your insurers, they said. So I put myself in the hands of Staysure, who have not, two weeks on, even responded. Anyway we headed back to Glasgow on the train, striking up a conversation with fellow passenger Brid, who  very generously offered us the use of her apartment in Copenhagen. We drank Salford gin and wondered about a weekend in Wick. Back in Glasgow, we consulted with the weans and booked this last minute compensatory trip to Tenerife.

Tenerife, we thought, would at least be warm. Warmer than Wick or Copenhagen, anyway. What we hadn’t realised was that the Canary Islands  were suffering the worst spring weather for decades. Storm Therese was causing heavy snow on higher ground, sudden deluges of rain, and damage to buildings and the coastline; beaches were closed and so was the Mount Teide National Park. That’s active volcano Mount Teide which, to cap it all was muttering and murmuring with some small earthquakes occurring, just to make things even more relaxed.

The night we arrived, a party of British tourists was trapped onboard their minibus by a flash flood, just down the hill from our hotel. But next day the sun shone, the pool sparkled and the low-proof cava was at the very least quite refreshing. And we could eat three unlimited meals a day from a massive buffet.

Which was fine for the first three days, until Marks and Spencer syndrome kicked in. That’s the phenomenon that renders all food from M&S similar in taste, be it salmon or steak, muesli or mushrooms. To be fair, it would be the same if you ate in any restaurant every day. Haute cuisine can become hospital food. And the Hotel Alua Soul (part of the Hyatt Group) does not do haute cuisine

But we’re thankful for small mercies, we discovered the short order grill and went for omellettes, grilled fish and what I instantly remembered from childhood Costa Brava holidays was ‘chewy meat’. Scrupulously clean, everything thoroughly cooked and so far no norovirus. Excellent  bread, freshly baked every day. We wandered down the hill for treats at neighbourhood joints but the return trip was hard on ancient knees.

Still, as I sit here on our last day by the pool, the weather is glorious and even the generic cheeseburgers (free) from the pool bar seem appetising. We have gained some UV. Enjoyed being…away. In a hotel room bigger than our old house. The botanic gardens and the old harbour at Puerto de la Cruz, the Cortados and Cruzcampos (4.8% these days) have all been delightful. 

Most of the guests at our hotel are Dutch or Spanish with the odd stray from the UK, some of them regretting their choice. This is an “adults only” joint which basically means, no screaming weans. Some guests are clearly misinterpreting , though, expecting a kind of Club 18-30 for the middle aged. A couple at the pool yesterday, just arrived, wondered  loudly what kind of place they’d ended up in. 

Striking up a conversation with their sunlounger neighbours, (loudly, over the Taylor Swift water-aerobics for the over-60s) the heavily-tattooed gent invited them to join him and his partner on a trip to the town. “Let’s go and get completely fucked” he said. His neighbours gracefully declined.

Tomorrow we fly home from Tenerife South, assuming the transfer coach turns up, the new Spanish passport machines are working, ground staff strikes are over and Jet 2 have found my lost ticket home.

Happy holidays…