We don’t have enough time for a van trip [and the van is still in need of repair] but we can squidge in a short trip somewhere if we fly. Short-haul flight is not something we’ve been in the habit of doing. Under normal circumstances we’d use our home-on-wheels for forays into Europe, but needs must, since we both have health appointments to fit in.

But we’ve a few days spare, and having looked at what’s available we see that there’s a short trip to Portugal – and the weather forecast tells us that the temperature is not too hot- high 20s but not 30s. We can do it!

We’ll be going to Tavira, which we visited many, many years ago – so many, in fact that we think it may have been during our tent-camping years. We’d come across Tavira while wandering along the southern Spanish coast and over the border into Portugal. We’d thought it a refreshingly unspoilt place for the Algarve, undeveloped and free of high-rise hotels. But for the life of us- we’re unable to recall where the campsite could have been!

Anyway- back to the flying part. We’re booked on to a budget airline- which shall remain nameless- but has a reputation for charging for every little thing- checked baggage, cabin luggage, meals, snacks, seat selection, Seat selection! If you should desire to sit with your travel companion, you must pay extra for the luxury. We determine that although we must check in one case [between us, due to medication], we can manage the two hour flight without sitting together.

We’re flying from our local airport, which most friends and family seem to consider an advantage. The local airport also charges for everything, so the taxi cost is significantly increased by the ‘drop-off’ charge. Drop-off charge!

Inside Arrivals, the situation is mayhem, with long strings of queues stretching in every direction. There is no indication as to which queue is waiting for which desk, since nothing is labelled. The system appears to consist of one large woman walking around and shouting intermittently at us, the would-be passengers. We join a queue, with no clue as to whether it’s for us. Nothing is happening and nothing moves. The large woman walks past, shouting destinations. I leave the queue to question her, returning with the news that we are in the wrong queue, a fact that Husband does not wish to acknowledge. I join the correct queue, taking the suitcase with me.

After aeons, we get to the bag drop desk, where the conveyor belt isn’t working and everyone must trek round to the ‘outsize luggage’ place. Then it’s the joys of security- which we do actually have the hang of these days! Husband must avoid the gate scanner at all costs and I’m sent back to be scanned by hand.

We repack and go to departures, expecting a relaxing wait with a drink and a snack. We’re met with a seething mass of humanity, crammed into the one bar/cafe. Husband queues for drinks while I peruse the aisles in the one or two shops, which yield very little in the way of lunch or a snack at all.

There’s nowhere to sit- until a kindly couple invite us to share their table. They’ve waited all day for their delayed flight and still have a few hours to go…

Later, we’re invited to go to the gate. Once again, it’s guesswork which queue to join. But we do get on to a plane. I’m sandwiched between a very large Portuguese lady and a neurotic ex-pat lady who speaks Portuguese, then treated to their conversation, which is conducted across me. For the remainder of the flight, the neurotic ex-pat harangues me about her ailing business in Portugal [quad bikes] and the difficulties of her family.

When I go to use the WC I pass Husband, who is merrily chomping on Pringles and swigging red wine. Ho hum…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com