Traveller’s tale from a traveller waiting to embark without his E111 health card

BY the time all the packing is done, I really will need the holiday. An event which will be all over in the space of seven sun-filled (fingers crossed) days has taken seven months in the preparation.That’s seven months of rising tension and anxiety. Seven months of planning and plotting. Seven months of googling and conspiring.

First there was the booking of the flights. What’s so terribly complicated or unsettling about that, you may ask. In reply, all I can say to you is that you are not married Hermione, a woman who loves a bargain. Once we decided to take a break, she was set on making sure that Michael O’Leary would not be dining out on whatever pittance we shell out for air tickets.

Finding the best rate for the best flights at the best times is her art form, a skill which raises her to a high plane (ahem!) of skill. Or, if not an art form, then this is at least a process charged with all the excitement of a Masai warrior stalking a zebra.

If she can secure us a price for travel to our Iberian resort in the far off semi-tropics which would be an acceptable rate for an off-season weekend in Brighton, then she is happy. But her happiness has been secured at the cost of my good night’s sleep.

Much of the exhaustive process of monitoring the Aer Lingus or Ryanair web-sites was conducted at night. The glare from Hermione’s lap-tap frequently cast its unsettling light around the marital bed-chamber into the small hours. It took ten weeks of relentless pursuit of the low cost zebra across the virtual Serengeti of the internet before the deal was sealed with an encrypted thrust of a credit card spear.

Vacation fever abated for a while after that, though there was a sporadic series of did-you-know questions as brochures, websites and travel books were scoured.

‘Did you know there’s a weekly market in the hills above Puerto Avensis? And that the stalls there specialise in the local delicacy of gull’s gizzards?’ No, you’re kidding. We must bring back a jar of pickled gull’s gizzards for the Ladies Who Lunch to get their teeth into.

‘Did you know that the country music festival in Playa Captur is the largest of its kind in the Spanish speaking world?’ No, that’s amazing. Is that a picture of Declan Nurney or Diego Maradonna under that stetson?

‘Did you know that Buenos Bora has more bicycles for hire than downtown Shanghai?’ No, that cannot be true. Anyway, you have no intention of shifting from the sun lounger to hire a bike. Or of going to markets. Or of attending concerts starring Natanael Cartero. And nor have I.

Then after the mild zaniness of the did-you-know phase comes the horrors of the final countdown, with endless ticking of boxes on list after list after list. Sun-cream, tick. Passports, tick. Form E111, tick. But the sun-cream will have to be decanted into a smaller containers if it is to make it past airport security. The passports should be fine, though no one in our household is quite sure whether they are necessary for anyone who has one of those new-fangled official ID cards.

And the E111’s seem fine too, until a late check reveals that mine expires on the day of our departure. So now I find that I am jetting off to a foreign country without health cover. Disaster will ensue should I chance to slip and break an ankle getting out of the swimming pool or succumb to food poisoning caused by hazards such as dodgy gull’s gizzards and under-cooked chicken.

I shall bring a walking stick and I shall eat nothing but porridge and ice-cream for the week while the beloved is tucking into the paella with reckless abandon after performing death-defying handstands on the sun-terrace. She will be safe in the knowledge that she has free access to all local hospitals and orthopaedic clinics.

Finally, there is the stress of being a smuggler. Stashed away in my suitcase under a layer of underclothes, I have concealed a teapot. This is in order to ensure that breakfasts abroad are worth getting out of bed for. It is probably not actively illegal to import a teapot into Spain. Nevertheless I do not fancy trying to explain myself to local customs and excise if they uncover it.