The plane experience- the holiday season.

The plane experience -the holiday season.

Just over 40  years we were all complete novices. In fact very few of us were aware of it. To what do I refer, I hear you say. The big, wide world was somehow a long way away for us. If you'd suggested that the yearly summer holiday would consist of a fortnight in Clacton, Southend, Margate, Blackpool or Brighton then you may well have considered such salubrious British seaside resorts as very much the norm and none would have questioned you. It was the traditional family choice of holiday because, frankly, Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA or sexy sounding Mexico were just dreamlike destinations that were too far away and besides how would we get there and how long would it take to get there?

But then we sat down in our kitchens with our newly acquired travel brochures from the local high street, leafed through the pages at all those idyllic images of stunning three, four or five star hotels with palm trees sitting happily next to blue swimming pools, sun loungers with towels draped territorially over the top of the sun loungers, bottles of sun factor 45, and splendidly good looking apartments with magnificent balconies. It was the kind of holiday we could only have dreamt about at the time but then the wish became a wish fulfilment and we all flew away to sunnier climes on an aeroplane which seemed like a fantasy at the time.

So it was that they boarded our planes from either Luton, Heathrow, Gatwick or the many regional airports scattered around Britain and embarked on the kind of adventure that none could have thought  as remotely conceivable 20 or so years earlier. Certainly Spain, Italy or Greece were just countries on a school globe rather than the very attractive and exciting holiday haunts they would become in later decades.

Then it all became clear, in full technicolour, a truly eye opening experience that would sweep us off our feet until the present day. We would sit somewhat awkwardly next to comparative strangers or, if we were lucky, members of our own family. We were tightly packed together like the proverbial sardines, wrestling with disobedient seat belts, struggling with our seating position and then sighing with exasperation when the little light in front of us refused to work so that we would never know when it was the right time to either belt up or take off the belts.

What followed next somehow belonged in some TV sitcom, a process so bizarre and unbelievable that even the funniest of comedy scriptwriters could never have written it. After a general lugging, lifting and heaving of bags and small suitcases, we all settled down still huffing and puffing perhaps but simply delighted to be free of our burdens for the duration of the flight. Suddenly after yet more mutterings of perhaps understandable impatience it all started or so it seemed. We chuckled for a couple of seconds, sat down again and fiddled about curiously with the little cinema screen in front of us and then looked for our choice of movie or music channel. Now that's what we could have called entertainment.

Finally we'd sorted ourselves out and it began. At the end of those long and winding plane aisles which seemed to go on for ever and still do, there were smartly dressed air stewards and air stewardesses ready and waiting to perform their party piece. With just a hint of formality and ceremony the air stewards launched into an extraordinary exhibition, an exhibition that was quite a revelation and one that to this day is not so much a standard procedure but a life saving necessity.

Within the next five minutes the passengers on board are treated to some intriguing exercise. You're reminded of those gentlemen on military aircraft carriers who wave paddles about to guide their men back to the flight path. There they stand several very official looking men and women who proceed to give us an impressive demonstration of hand signals designed to save us should an emergency crop up.

For what seems the best part of five, ten or even a quarter of an hour three or four very suave men and women point their hands from left to right and the rest is somewhat bewildering but nonetheless vitally important. Right at the end of this safety and security explanation oxygen masks are supposed to fall from above our heads but then we look at that practical manual which should be of immense help to you but may just as well have been written in another language because this is  indecipherable.

 Finally there's the inflatable ring which when blown up. is supposed to keep you afloat but then you look at the heavy seas outside and think of the worst case scenario. But of course the pilot is vastly experienced and everybody will be fine so there's no need to worry at all. Y Viva Espana here we come. So we go back to that great looking SatNav which tells us where we are in the world, the altitude we're flying at and shortly your captain will be announcing your descent.  

By now the passengers in their seats are still switching lights on and off, adjusting their belts and then shuffling about restlessly as if barely able to face a lengthy flight that seems to last innumerable decades but in reality is no more than a short hop, skip or jump over the European airspace. We then look out of the windows and assess the pattern of clouds. Then we go through that annoying rigmarole of  walking through customs before passing through that interminable security check which is simply a pain in the neck. It is now time to collect all of our money, our watches, our trouser belts and then just get cracking on with the serious business of having a good time on our holiday.

For some of us those oxygen masks and the whole array of literature that the passengers are immediately faced with somehow enhance the whole enjoyment of the flight. And yet you can't help but wonder if any of us are the wiser for this compulsory set of instructions before take off. Then there's the whistle firmly attached to the oxygen mask which only adds to the sense of incredulity.

Throughout the flight all seems to be perpetual motion. Tiny lunch and tea tables, still a claustrophobic nightmare, are opened and shut before we finally cram another other set of bags into the  locker above our seats.. We now look down at the aeroplane magazines filled with yet more exotic locations and decide that we'll all look for our Tablet for more entertainment but then find that thousands of miles up in the sky there's no signal or reception so we knock that idea on the head and just pull our pillow towards our head and drop off to sleep.

Half way through the flight the fun continues. Once again those prim, proper and elegant air stewards and stewardesses once again appear. Soon a huge cabinet of food and drink glide their way effortlessly down the aisles. A smilingly pleasant voice asks you, quite decorously, about your choice of drink. The alternatives are the traditional tea, coffee or quite possibly tomato juice but if you're sufficiently adventurous, a gin and tonic or a swift brandy just to keep up your buoyant spirits.

Now we come to that gastronomic high point. Our friendly air steward leans over you with that horribly unappealing meal, a tightly packed concoction that looks as though it's just been taken out of the micro wave oven at a ridiculous heat and just thrown onto your table. Now you're given roasted, boiled or piping hot chicken that should have been left in the micro wave because quite clearly it was never fit for human consumption. Next to the bubbling chicken are what can only be described as deeply hurt looking carrots or brussel sprouts nestling pathetically next to a  chicken that now looks very sad and dejected.

 This is not the kind of fare Jamie Oliver would ever dare to present before his customers because if he did he'd probably have a riot on his hands. This is not the kind of food you should ever eat at any time of your life because it's barely edible in its present incarnation although things have improved dramatically over the years. But once your plastic knives and forks have survived this culinary ordeal you carefully move the remnants of the meal before ripping open the cheese and biscuits with an almost ravenous relish.

Then there's the plane coffee. On one of my first visits abroad I can still remember feeling deeply traumatised by the coffee. Here was this vile tasting black coffee which even with its grudging sachet of milk would still be utterly revolting. In those days though this new holiday venture into the unknown still had so much to offer. It was essentially a new way of life for all of us because this was the beginning of an entirely different travelling culture where everybody had to be adaptable within a short period of time.

And then we reached our Spanish Costa Brava hotels with polite receptionists who did their utmost to make the British feel at home. Naturally we couldn't wait to make our presence felt and insisted that all the waiters had to understand orders for English beer even if, initially, our Spanish friends hadn't a clue what we were talking about. But the British came down for their breakfast in deepest Majorca or Minorca, possibly even Benidorm and promptly parked on their dining room tables our very own boxes of Corn Flakes, our Heinz Tomato Sauce, our Golden Shred marmalade and then some very tasteful bottles of salad cream.

 Britain had asserted her authority on the sun baked islands of Iberia and Britannia ruled the waves,  making no apology whatsoever for doing so. We had to carve out our very own identity because almost at once we must have felt a very deep connection and affinity with our Spanish hosts. Here we were introducing our very own British habits and customs to a country who took to us instantly and warmed to us in a way that would never be forgotten.

I was very fortunate to spend a couple of half term holidays in Spain with my parents and can still see those gloriously amateurish Spanish desserts. There was the wobbly caramel that looked as though it had been slung across the kitchen and landed on the chef's head by accident. There were very few alternatives to caramel so I can still see my mum and my late dad, bless him, wincing in horror at the mess they'd been confronted with.

But there were the redeeming features and there was the Spanish breakfast. I can remember one hotel where you were made to feel like royalty and pampered beyond reason. For breakfast there was a formidable buffet where you could help yourself to bread rolls, toast, omelette, cheese, a cooked breakfast served up in mouth watering style if you wanted it, yoghurts that were mouth wateringly sweet and as much coffee and tea you could drink within the space of one morning.

I'm not sure whether this can be clarified or confirmed as fact but I'm sure my mum was something of a pioneer. My brother, who was a baby at the time, and had been dreadfully overlooked at the time, was swiftly fed and watered  at my mum's firm insistence, with his very own high chair and meal times from that point onwards were never the same. It seemed to us that the Spanish hadn't thought about young children and babies and as such the facilities were almost non existent.

Then there were the day trips with those meagre packed lunches consisting of a boiled egg, an orange and a reluctant carton of orange juice. At the time it was somehow acceptable and I'm not sure whether anybody knew anything was wrong or somehow missing. There were baby bullfights somewhere in the heart of the Spanish countryside, the highly intoxicating sangria tasting sessions, the day the lights went out for my dad and I in a Barcelona department store. Oh what fun we had and although there was always the most unfortunate language barrier Spain loved the British and still do- despite our aversion to Europe at the moment.

So it is that on some distant Spanish or Greek isle a fierce blast of hot and balmy sunshine will burst through the early morning mist and take its place in its highest and loftiest position. Blue skies will paint the Spanish landscape in much the way that Picasso would have deeply appreciated and the British will lay back and think of England in a Spanish hotel. And of course the British, who now own most of the pubs and cafes in Spain, can happily reminisce on the nights when donkeys were won and sangria was shamelessly drunk in huge quantities. Oh for those heady Costa Blanca nights. How we love our summer holidays. Please though I'd rather pass on the wobbly caramel. I'd rather have just the orange if you don't mind.