The serene and calming photo accompanying this post does little to convey the pensioner-related carnage I witnessed shortly after it was taken.
We’re now in Mallorca, having enjoyed an excellent few days in Orihuela Costa, north of Murcia.
We’re in a hotel in the much-derided (and rightly so) Santa Ponça, which is truly awful at the height of summer. Usually invested by kids on their first parent-free trip abroad, it’s boozey, loud, festooned with flags and tattoos and street side vomit. All before lunch…
But Frank’s parents live here, so we’re taking a chance on an April break, to see them and take in the glorious weather.
Our hotel is a very mixed bag. On the one hand, it claims to have four stars. On the other, it has some very 1950s approaches to decor, furnishing, food and amenities. Our room could best be described as Formica-Spartan.
But they (somehow) knew it was Frank’s birthday today and left us a bottle of Cava and a fruit bowl to wish him a happy one.
We went there a little after lunchtime and the views were superb and the atmosphere peaceful.
Shortly after we got settled, however, we were joined by a very “spirited” group of Spanish pensioners. Here in Spain, the government subsidises summer holidays for some retired people. And a whole flock of them seem to be staying here. They’re definitely out to have a good time…
Aside from carrying out conversations across the pool at a volume that would damage a jet pilot’s hearing, they’re smoking like sailors and arguing like toddlers. I got bored of this fairly quickly and even the insertion of some earphones couldn’t block them out.
The final straw was the 70-something who cannon-balled into the pool, soaking people all around him.
On the one hand, they were loud and inconsiderate. On the other, I have to admire their chutzpah and sheer energy. I hope I’m that full of energy once I’m retired.
So now I’m on our room’s balcony, enjoying an ice-cold beer and inspecting my tan-lines.