Part 1 — Spain
Going abroad for the first time as an adult is something nobody really prepares you for, and I was doing it!! For the first time ever, I was going abroad.
I hadn’t planned it, I hadn’t paid for it, but I’d been told we were going. Darren’s parents lived out on the Costa Blanca and he wanted to see them — they wanted to see their granddaughter. I was invited along as the new girlfriend. Lucky me.
I was apprehensive. Quietly terrified, if I’m honest. I’d never left the country before and the thought of leaving my four children behind — even in the very capable hands of my parents — gnawed at me for the entire trip. (Spoiler: they were absolutely fine. They probably had a better time without me.)
The day arrived and we made our way to Birmingham Airport. I really didn’t know what to expect. It was busy, loud and slightly overwhelming, so I did what any reasonable person does — I clung to Darren as he walked confidently through bag drop, security, and then straight into the pub. (No one judges a 6am pint of lager in an airport bar. No one.)
We watched the departure board like a hawk. The second our gate flashed up, we speed-marched our way there like we were late for something important.
The plane was nothing like I’d imagined. I’d built it up to be something spectacular. It felt more like a National Express coach — people squeezing cabin bags into overhead lockers, strangers in your personal space, the faint smell of someone’s breakfast. My heart was excited, embracing the adventure. My head was thinking… how exactly is this tin can going to get off the ground?
Taking the window seat as I wanted the full experience, I had always wondered what it was like to fly through a cloud!
We taxied up the runway. Slowly at first — stopping at junctions, turning, going again — until suddenly we shot forward, pinned to the backs of our seats as the nose lifted and the ground disappeared beneath us. Then a big sigh as we finally levelled out and I remembered to breathe.
I spent the flight gazing out of the window trying to make sense of what I could see — patchwork fields, large bodies of water, snow-capped mountains. The cabin crew made their way up the aisle with refreshments and of course we obliged. (See: airport pub. Recurring theme.)
Then came the request from Darren.
“Can you take Shannon to the toilet?” His then three-year-old daughter, looking up at me expectantly.
I froze.
My answer was an immediate and firm no. I was not standing up whilst we were in the air. I was not walking to the toilet. I was not doing anything that might unbalance this tin can that was somehow, inexplicably, flying through the sky at 35,000 feet.
Darren laughed. The cabin crew — bless them — took Shannon to the loo.
(I still don’t stand up mid-flight. I’m not sorry.)
We touched down in Murcia and everyone on the plane clapped. (I still don’t understand this.) I was more concerned about the moment they’d turned all the lights off before landing — apparently that’s perfectly normal. Nobody told me that beforehand.
We grabbed our bags and walked out into Spain.
The heat hits you like opening the oven door mid-cook. That wall of warm air that stops you in your tracks. I wasn’t ready for it, even though I absolutely should have been.
Darren’s dad collected us and drove us back to his parents’ home. I was taking it all in — anxious, a little overwhelmed, but completely in awe. I was in a whole different country.
Every morning began with a walk with Darren’s dad, past what I can only describe as Smelly Corner, through trees absolutely buzzing with the songs of insects, down to the local taverna. Fresh coffee, tapas, and my introduction to a morning brandy in my coffee. Apparently it helps you stay cool throughout the day. I chose to believe this entirely.
We swam in the communal pool with Shannon each afternoon, shopped in Alicante, did the local pubs in the evenings. And then came the beach day.
I wore a red bikini and the factor 50 that Darren’s mum reminded me to apply at every possible opportunity. Her intentions were those of a caring mother. Her brash Welsh accent made it sound considerably more aggressive than that. (She was wonderful, rest her soul.)
We walked onto the beach via a wooden platform and stepped off onto the sand.
I was not expecting the sand to be that hot.
Towels down. Darren and I left Shannon with her grandparents and headed for the sea.
Now. I watched Jaws as a child. This has had a lasting and frankly unreasonable impact on my relationship with open water. I don’t go in the sea beyond my ankles. Not in Spain. Not in Greece. Not even in the Solent, which I can practically see from my window.
Darren assured me the water was warm. It was fine, he said. It was safe.
I could see my feet on the sandy bottom. I could feel the gentle drag of the waves. He walked with me to waist deep, then swam out and back to reassure me.
I stood there. Waist deep. Completely convinced a shark was coming.
As the holiday drew to a close, my mind was already elsewhere — on my children, on home, on that familiar pull back to the people I’d left behind. I can’t remember much about how we left, if I’m honest. Being dropped at the airport. The same apprehensive white-knuckle flight home. (And the genuinely shocking cost of a Birmingham black cab. Nobody warns you about that either.)
The guilt never really left me that trip. It lifted when my mind was occupied — a walk, a swim, a brandy in my coffee — but it was always there, quietly humming in the background. I wished they could have been with me.
To this day, none of my four children have been abroad. They’re all grown adults raising their own children now. I think my two youngest might catch the travel bug if they ever make it out of the UK. My oldest two are committed home birds — and honestly, there’s nothing wrong with that either.
As for me — I caught it. Quietly, without really noticing. I wanted to keep travelling.
I just didn’t make it abroad again until I was 40.
(And that’s a whole other story.)
If you want to know more about my travels, start here Where Have I Been and Where Do I Want to Go?
