Heading back to Blighty...

I never set my alarm, but was up by 0600hrs anyway and looking forward to what the hotel offered for breakfast, although I had a pretty good idea: cake, of course, and plenty of it. I was right... and I was happy!

A cream-filled croissant, a custard-filled slice of cake, some small round pastries full of custard, it was all happening on my table. The friendly waitress offered me a cappuccino and I accepted. Later she offered me another and again, I accepted. There was fruit, fresh fruit and a fruit salad which, I think, I ordered and then didn't eat, at least I can't remember eating it, such was the excitement of the cake and the frothy coffee. I had time and so indulged myself. A yoghurt followed and an apple, which I munched away as other guests arrived, well, two – make that three – other guests: a mother and daughter combo, actually five other guests, there was a couple of slightly rotund ladies and an edgy-looking woman with a roughish face who sat alone, like I did, and looked pre-occupied. 

Through the gate and waiting for the bus to the plane...

Breakfast over I went to my room and packed, not that I hadn't done most of it already, it was just the electric toothbrush and toothpaste to put away and then I waltzed downstairs to the rather baronial hall lobby where I checked out, told them how much I loved the hotel and then ordered a cab to the airport. It arrived in minutes and soon I was on my way. The journey took all of 15 minutes and then I was faced with the chaos of the airport which seemed to be unnaturally busy. There were school kids and holidaymakers queuing up for something or other, probably a flight, one queue wound its way out of the building (I saw it when my taxi pulled up). There were soldiers with guns and sunglasses and I was asked where I was going. I said "London" and all was well, I could continue into the terminal building. What the hell was going on? I would never find out. Perhaps it was because it was Saturday, who knows? Once inside I found the BA check-in and waited for it to open, then it was a case of handing over (ahem) my case, getting my boarding pass (seat 35F, a window seat) and then heading for another queue (for security). It all went pretty smoothly and I found myself standing with a lot of red-faced people, clearly skiers and those who follow other outdoor pursuits, like climbing. I wasn't bothered. There are so many things I won't do and climbing and skiing are just two of them. I won't jump out of an aeroplane either or go diving looking for sharks.

On the plane...

Once through I sprayed myself with a Polo aftershave tester (it was free so why not?) and then ordered a ham and mozzarella roll as I knew that BA would only offer a bag of shitty pretzels and a small bottle of mineral water. Once microwaved, the roll melted and became a spludgy mess on a white plate...but that didn't stop me.

The flight was alright. Most of it was clear, but as we approached the UK the cloud thickened and I found myself thinking of the Tory party, Dominic fucking Raab in particular, and all the shite the UK liked to pile upon its people who, like cockroaches, scuttle around under the cover of cloud, moaning about their lot. I, of course, was one of them too and now I was heading home to be as much of a cockroach as everybody else. Soon, little gaps appeared in the cloud, revealing England's green and unpleasant land. The plane shuddered as it penetrated the big chunks of cumulus dotted around the skies and I started wondering why the pilot doesn't aim for the clear bits and avoid the cloud? But of course, he never does, instead he heads straight for a fucking great lump of the stuff and we all suffer as a result... or I do, nobody else seems to be bothered. Soon we were down on the ground and from then onwards, everything was fairly easy.

I found a sign saying "last toilet before passport control" and thought: that's where I'm headed! There was something intriguing about the last toilet before passport control and the walk there was interesting too because there was nobody around. I started to wonder whether, when I left the toilet, I'd be 500 years in the future or something whacky of that nature. But no, I was still in the 21st Century and I was back on track. 

Looking down on Italy...

There was nobody at passport control, my bag was on the reclaim when I got there (reclaim conveyor 8) and soon I was swanning through customs without a care in the world. I headed straight for Costa Coffee, from where I write this blogpost, as there's a train strike so I thought I'd get my bearings, have something to eat (prawn and mayo sarnie, a Millionaire's Shortbread and an English Breakfast tea) and then head for home either in a taxi or by train. 

It was a good trip overall and while I had been inwardly moaning about air travel from the minute I reached the airport, as we approached Gatwick today I asked myself whether there had really been any major hassles. The answer, of course, was no, there was nothing from the outward flight to the inward one that was really bad... apart from BA cancelling my return flight, but even that meant a few free hours in Verona, a wander around the city, a really nice dinner in Caffe Dante and, of course, a night in a decent hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon when I flew out to Italy I had the choice of queuing for a human being to check me in or use the machines; I opted eventually for the latter and it was alright. The flight out was ok, there was no turbulence, and when I reached Verona there was Maria waiting to pick me up and take me to Storo and the Polentera hotel. 

Approaching Gatwick airport.

On the return trip it was roughly the same: the taxi arrived within two minutes of being ordered, I checked in fairly successfully and yes, I queued for security but there's no way around that. It didn't take long and soon I was through and chilling (if that's the word) before the flight and, as outlined above, that was fine too. That said, however, I'm annoyed that flying is so cheap. Certainly, when I can, I'll take the train (like to Dusseldorf in June). I can't get the train to Detroit sadly and I'm guessing that a cabin on a cargo ship will be beyond my company's means and will add around 10 days to the trip. So I'll have to put up and shut up and make the most of what is thrown at me.

I'm not a great fan of flying, but I do a fair bit of it one way or the other. I don't mind it on a good day when there's no weather to deal with, but if it's cloudy and rainy (or worse) then I invariably get a little anxious. I'm  not overly keen on long flights because there's bound to be turbulence somewhere along the line and I hate it. Also, long haul flights leave me knackered and incapable and in need of recovery, so yes, more rail travel, certainly in Europe is on the cards, but when it comes to the US or the Middle East of the Far East I'll have to put up with flying.

England's green and unpleasant land, well, it's not that bad...

In search of the last toilets before passport control at Gatwick airport.

"Last toilets before Passport control!"

Leaving Dublin for London Gatwick ...

I went in search of gate 414 where my return flight awaited me. I'd been fortunate enough to get a window seat – seat 1a no less – and fuelled with childish excitement I made my way to the gate, realising as I walked that I totally understood the notion of a so-called 'United States of Europe'. It might sound a little daft, but whenever I find myself in the USA I quite enjoy walking around, say, Chicago O'Hare airport while waiting for a connecting flight to somewhere like Pittsburgh or Cleveland. As I stroll along, I like passing the departure gates and looking at various destinations: Grand Rapids, Sioux Falls, Cedar Rapids, Charlotte, Baton Rouge – it goes on and on – and normally, sitting on a chair waiting patiently for a flight is a stereotypical American, wearing cowboy boots, Levis, a Harley Davidson tee-shirt and so on. I find myself looking at these people with their peculiar forms of 'being American' and thinking what a diverse, massive country this is, made up of many states, all of which are very different from one another; and then I find myself wanting to spend a lot more time in this great country, checking out the various states, seeing what they have to offer, driving from one to the other – where else in the world can I do this, I might ask myself. And then it would twig: why, right on my own doorstep, of course, that's where! Now, as I walked towards gate 414 I passed many other gates: Dusseldorf; Corfu, Munich; Paris, Zagreb, Budapest, you name it – the United States of Europe where I could, should I so choose to, fly or drive or take the train to visit these places. Who needs the USA to travel great distances without really leaving 'home'?

But then my brow furrowed as I realised that the United Kingdom (somehow even the name of the cuntry seems wrong these days) was on its way out of Europe on a road towards isolation, no longer part of the whole, but a small island off the mainland, a place not really liked by the Europeans, a place full of bigoted old people and men with tattoos on their calves, with an inflated idea of their own importance, a place where Europeans think twice before they order a steak sandwich or a roast chicken dinner because the beef might be hormone-injected and the chicken washed with chlorine. The United Kingdom will become a place where Europeans are classed as 'other countries' rather than the EU when they are processed by British immigration officials at passport control. And when we journey into Europe, of course, we too will find ourselves queuing in the line reading 'other countries', no longer part of things, no longer European.

Is it just me?
Is it just me? I wonder how many times I've asked that question? Is it just me or is it impossible to find a quiet and deserted restroom at an airport, somewhere without the sound of hot air driers or somebody else in the next cubicle making an unappetising noise – and a considerably more unappetising smell. I can wander for miles at some airports, past lonely and unoccupied departure gates in search of a toilet and when I find one, there's loads of people making a noise and being generally unpleasant. It's not like a hotel where, if you look hard enough, you can stumble upon an oasis of calm with cubicles sporting solid wood doors, sturdy locks and no gaps in the adjoining walls where the shoes and scrunched up trousers of an unwanted neighbour are revealed.

Posh hotel toilets with piped musak and a not a soul in sight, a place to relax and meditate and do what comes naturally – ideal if you're trying to avoid a know-all bastard who won't stop talking. But no, not at an airport. Airports are noisy, crowded places full of people pulling suitcases behind them. Sometimes it might be possible to find an area of calm, a deserted gate, a place to stretch out away from the madding crowds, but it's the exception, not the rule.

The best part of any airport is the restaurants, the eateries, the places where you can enjoy a few moments of peace nursing a peppermint tea and a Danish pastry or, as I enjoyed at Dublin airport prior to departure, a blood orange tea and a scone. Very tasty and I was able to eavesdrop on the know-all and the stooge (see previous post).

Back in the country...

I'm now in the plane and we're about to land at London Gatwick. Outside the patchwork quilt of green and brown fields, lakes and ponds and a landscape familiar to me – that of country lanes and small villages – similar if not the very same places that I encounter on my weekly rides with Andy at the weekends. The hot summer has left many fields parched and brown. I look out to see if I can spot any familiar landmarks. There are plenty of country houses, a racetrack, lakes, long-term car parks as the runway looms, trees like florets of brocolli, cars, the M23, more car parks, woods, the railway line, other planes, a wind sock and we're on the ground at 1855hrs. It's hotter here than in Dublin, there's less cloud and a lovely hazy evening sunshine.

The plane is making it's way to the terminal building, past the control tower. I can see plenty of white and orange easyJet aircraft parked up or making their way towards the runway, plenty of staircases on wheels leading nowhere, and vast expanses of tarmac with arrows, yellow arrows, pointing at, hold on, pointing at those staircases, meaning just one thing: a bus to the terminal building! Or maybe not, we're still on the move, being chased by an electric airport vehicle with the number 184 emblazoned on its sides. No, it's going to be a jetty and a terminal building. Phew! We've arrived, the plane has stopped and it's time to go.

But no, I was mistaken. A short walk through the tunnel didn't lead to the carpeted comfort of the terminal building, it led to a concrete staircase and an awaiting bus, which took us to baggage reclaim. I was told off by security for taking photographs (see below).

The bus from plane to terminal building