Travel trials and tribulations.

Like sensible seasoned travellers we booked our tickets in advance for the AUTNA bus from Vigo to Porto for the first stage of yesterday’s journey back to the UK. You can pay on the bus but there’s always a chance that the bus could be full, as I was helpfully told by someone at the bus station in Pontevedra, who then unhelpfully couldn’t actually sell me a ticket or suggest where I might buy one. But that’s an old story, already told. 

We got to the bus station 10 or 15 minutes before the bus was due to leave. It was just pulling in, having come from Santiago via Pontevedra. There was quite a queue there, including an old dear who was shrieking “¡Emiiiilioooooo!” at the top of her voice. As you might expect, this was her husband, who had wandered off just at the crucial moment when he was needed to put the case in the luggage compartment. Someone helped out and the old chap turned up. All was well there then! 

This was rather less the case with the bus queue, which seemed to be at a standstill. As the AUTNA website advises people to buy tickets in advance, it might not have been unreasonable for the bus driver to ask those who had tickets already to come to the front and board the bus. But you have to remember that “España es diferente” and when they decide to form a queue, even a rather bunchy kind of queue like that one, then they will jolly well keep to it. So, one by one, would-be passengers got on the bus (or at least the step onto the bus), had a chat with the driver, watched him wave his arms around (at one point it looked as though he was explaining the route we were about to take) and finally gave him some money. He then wrote details down on a ticket pad, the old style with a carbon copy for the company to keep, not even a ticket machine with a few buttons to press. And then he had a little rant about the fact that everyone was giving him €20 notes. He wondered aloud if someone was giving them away on Vigo bus station as so many people had them. When we finally made it onto the steps of the bus and I ostentatiously held my printed tickets where they could be easily spotted, he actually let us go ahead of some passengers waiting to change their €20 notes. 

Phew! What a relief! 

Of course, our allocated seats were already taken but there was plenty of room so we were not going to make a fuss. (However, we were ready, arguments marshalled, in case anyone else came along and accused us of being in their seats.) And finally, almost 45 minutes after the bus arrived in the station, and 15 minutes after the planned departure time, we were off! At full speed! One poor, foolish woman who decided to change her seat at the last moment was thrown down as the bus lurched round a bend. Some people called out to the driver, who took no notice whatsoever, but the lady appeared to be fine and we continued on our way, making sure our seatbelts were securely fastened, just in case! 

We had a longish wait in the airport, the tedium little relieved by the fact that the much vaunted free access to internet was not working properly. If you wanted to find nonsense about football players and other suchlike things they worked fine. I know this because I witnessed people doing just that. If, on the other hand, you wanted to check your email the machines threw up error messages. I watched one person after another settle down, try to log on, get up and try another computer and finally walk away in frustration. How hard would it be to have an airport employee check the facilities every so often to make sure they work? After all, they check the loos at regular intervals. It could be part of a job creation scheme. There must be a computer geek around who would love to have job at the airport. 

 On the other hand, Porto’s Sa Carneiro airport does have some nice touches. Sometimes there have been musical ensembles playing in the departures lounge. This time it was art installations, including these rather interesting examples of Portuguese “guitarras” turned into visual pieces. 

One way or another, we passed the time until our flight was ready to board. For once our cases were neither weighed nor subjected to the Ryanair “can your bag fit into this space?” test. The staff did, however, make several people combine their two pieces of hand luggage into one. Fair enough! If you travel with Ryanair you know they have their rules and regulations. “One piece of hand luggage” means just that. It doesn’t mean “a small case or holdall + my handbag” or “a sports bag + this little rucksack on my back”. It’s no good trying to fool them ... except by having a coat with lots of big pockets. 

So off we went, leaving rather wet and windy Portugal behind and heading for Liverpool where we were promised that the weather was better. All was going well. We appeared to be heading for another fanfare arrival, another flight arriving on time or even slightly ahead of schedule. We had even reached the point where the captain says, “Ten minutes to landing” and the “Cabin crew, take your seats for landing”. 

Except that we didn’t land. Just after that last announcement, the captain spoke again. There had been, it seemed, a problem with an earlier plane at Liverpool and they were having to inspect the runway. We could not land right then. We would have to circle around for ten minutes and then try again. 

Once the ten minutes were up, there came another announcement: the problem was persisting. Speculation about a plane that circled Liverpool forever came to mind. Was this going to be modern version of “Huis clos”, the play about Hell being other people? More seriously, we remembered a discussion we had had with our son about budget airlines’ cost-cutting, one of which involved flying with JUST enough fuel. Uh oh! 

And then the pilot informed us that we were going to land at Manchester, but just land, not disembark. The plane would refuel and we would then almost certainly head back for Liverpool. 

And off to Manchester we went, all rather tired; it was by now well past most people’s bedtime, past midnight anyway and we were about to turn into pumpkins or white mice or something. 

So we landed at Manchester. 

Before the fasten-seat-belts signs were switched off, some eager people had already grabbed their luggage from the overhead lockers and started walking down the aisle towards the exit ... only to be sent back to their seats. The captain explained that he had spoken to their head office in Dublin. No way were we getting off the plane in Manchester. Manchester was not prepared for us: no steps, no luggage handlers, no passport control officers, etcetera, etcetera. We could, however, switch on our mobile phones to let those waiting to meet us in Liverpool know what was going on. 

The man sitting next to us in our row received an apology email from Ryanair on his iPhone. That was nice. 

And we could use the bathrooms. Except that the cabin crew, who had locked the loos prior to landing, were not listening properly. They were busy texting. The first passengers to arrive at the facilities found the doors locked and assumed they were just occupied. So, being mostly British, they stood patiently in line until someone, probably of Spanish or Portuguese habits and therefore not prepared to wait patiently in line, twigged what was happening and spoke to a stewardess. 

Blessed relief for all the queue. 

Refuelling completed, we were able to take off again. Apologetically the captain asked us to listen once again to the safety announcements; this was, he told us, a legal requirement, even if we had not left the plane. At least they did not try to sell us drinks and sandwiches and duty free good. Not to mention lottery scratch cards! 

And finally, Liverpool once more. The runway was clear. We were able to land. It wasn’t raining but, boy, it did feel cold. 

 We were back in the UK ... somewhat later than planned!