I went to Majorca for a week and accidentally came back healthier, which was not the plan at all. The plan was to lie in the sun, read books, eat far too much and drink enough wine that I could win the All Inclusive. Instead, I couldn’t poo and I didn’t like the wine, so I spent a week eating less, drinking less, swimming in the sea and even walking up hills, while my boyfriend voluntarily ran several 10Ks because there is clearly something wrong with him.
It was basically a wellness retreat without any yoga. Still, it was lovely, which was particularly surprising given that the holiday began with us accidentally letting ourselves into someone else’s room at Travelodge Luton.
Travelodge Luton: 2/10. If that.
We had an early flight from Luton, and because I have reached an age where starting a holiday with a 3am drive involving the M4, M25 and M1 sounds like an absolutely shit way to begin a relaxing week away, we booked a room at the Travelodge nearby. It cost under fifty quid and was less than 15 minutes from the airport, which was really all we required. We weren’t looking for a dirty weekend in Luton, which is fortunate because Luton, from what I saw of it, is a bit of a shithole where nobody can park.
Sorry to the people of Luton. Not for slagging off Luton, but because you live there.
The Travelodge overlooked a garage forecourt and a busy road, but for less than £25 a person all we really wanted was a bed for seven hours and the reassurance that the M25 couldn’t personally fuck up our holiday. We arrived at around 10.20pm and there was nobody at reception, so we pressed the bell and eventually summoned a spectacularly disinterested man from the back room. He gave us our key and off we went.
Now, there have recently been some fairly horrifying stories in the news about Travelodge giving people keys to rooms already occupied by women, and we’d actually joked about this before staying there. My ex, who was generously dog-sitting, had even told me to be careful when I told him where we were going. I was recounting this exact conversation as we unlocked our hotel room and walked into somebody else’s clearly occupied room.
Fortunately, whoever was staying in Room 237 wasn’t actually there. They weren’t asleep, naked or going at it, but there were belongings everywhere making it quite clear that THIS WAS NOT OUR FUCKING ROOM. We quickly shut the door and went back downstairs to summon the receptionist again, who was presumably in the middle of an extremely important episode of something.
We handed him the key and explained that there was a problem. His response was, ‘Why, does the room smell?’ which raised several additional questions I hadn’t previously considered. No, the room did not smell. SOMEONE ELSE WAS STAYING IN IT. There was no apology and barely even a flicker of surprise at the fact he’d just given two strangers unrestricted access to another guest’s bedroom and belongings. We were simply given another key – this time to a room with lovely views right over a garage forecourt – and sent on our way.
Sorry, incidentally, to whoever was staying in Room 237 and presumably returned later to find their light mysteriously switched on. We were too stunned to turn it off on the way out. At least we didn’t nick anything.
Having personally established just how easy it was for Travelodge to give a stranger access to an occupied bedroom, I obviously slept brilliantly. The sheets were itchy, the USB socket didn’t work and every time I heard movement outside I wondered whether somebody was about to let themselves into our room. Travelodge Luton: 2/10. Did technically contain a bed.
(By way of a follow up for anyone who saw this in real time, I spent my time at the airport the next day emailing a letter of complaint to their Customer Services, and to the CEO who promptly quit two days later. They gave us a refund, and said they’d re-train staff, which probably isn’t true but hey).
The holiday itself was surprisingly stress-free
After approximately six hours of dubious sleep we headed to the airport, and that was where the chaos unexpectedly ended. The airport was fine. The flight was fine. The transfer was fine. Everything happened when it was supposed to happen and nobody accidentally gave us access to anything belonging to somebody else.
We were staying in Cala Millor in Majorca, which I discovered upon arrival was approximately ten minutes from the scene of one of my most harrowing holidays from hell ten years ago. I hadn’t deliberately returned to confront my demons or revisit the scene of my trauma; I had left the entire researching-and-booking stage up to my boyfriend hadn’t noticed where we’d booked. Fortunately there were no traumatic flashbacks and this time I had made the excellent decision to leave my own children at home.
In celebration of adults-only hotels
We stayed at the Talayot, an adults-only hotel overlooking the sea between Cala Millor and Cala Bona, and I cannot overstate how much I appreciated the words ‘adults only’. No screaming children around the pool, nobody repeatedly bombing into the water next to my head, no animation team dancing to Las Ketchup and no parents loudly negotiating with a six-year-old about whether they need to eat three chips before they’re allowed another ice cream. I appreciate the irony of having two children of my own and finding other people’s children deeply irritating, but I don’t see why that should stop me.
The hotel itself was lovely and quiet, the room was clean, comfortable, and air-conditioned, the pools were nice, and there were always sunbeds available despite German holidaymakers outnumbering other nationalities by at least 2:1 (and you know they take that shit seriously in Germany).
The sea was right in front of us. Cala Millor beach was about a three-minute walk away and had gorgeous turquoise water which was warm and lovely to swim in. It was also very, very hot, but that’s what you get for going to Majorca in August rather than somewhere sensible like Slough.
We didn’t just lie down all week
We didn’t spend the entire week lying down, although obviously that would have been a perfectly respectable way to spend it. My boyfriend, for example, went out and ran several 10Ks. On holiday. In Majorca. In August. Because he’s weird. I read two books, because I understand what holidays are actually for.
We also decided to do some walking. Our first attempt was Repetidor de Son Lluc, where we walked all the way up a hill before discovering that you can’t actually get to the summit because it’s closed to the public. This information was freely available in the Google reviews, which obviously we read afterwards. Still, we walked up a hill, exercise occurred and I’m counting it.
The next day we tried Puig de na Penyal, where you can actually get to the top. I didn’t because my knee hurt and I was too bloody hot, so at some point I decided that the view from nearly the top was quite sufficient and stopped. I could still see things from there, which as far as I’m concerned is the principal purpose of climbing a hill anyway. I think having the ability to quit when I’m fed up is one of my finest qualities.
I nearly threw up on a boat
We also went on a boat trip along the coast, past Sa Coma and down towards Porto Cristo. I’ve been to the Caves of Drach about three times already, so I felt I had fulfilled my lifetime quota of looking at Majorcan stalactites and we didn’t bother doing them again.
The boat trip itself was very pleasant for approximately 45 minutes, at which point I started to feel seasick and spent the remainder of the journey concentrating very hard on the horizon and trying not to vomit. I didn’t actually throw up, so I’m counting that as another successful excursion. Lovely scenery, turquoise sea, a lovely swim in the middle of the ocean and no public vomiting. Five stars.
My accidental Majorcan wellness retreat
The other slight problem with the holiday was that I couldn’t poo. At all. For days. This is particularly unfortunate on a holiday where you intend to spend most of your time in swimwear and eating your own body weight at a hotel buffet, because the more I ate, the more I became uncomfortably aware that absolutely nothing appeared to be leaving the building.
On top of this, I didn’t particularly like the wine. Instead of spending a week gorging myself and getting pleasantly pissed, as God intended when He invented package holidays, I therefore accidentally spent the week eating less, drinking less, swimming and walking up hills. It was basically a wellness retreat, except instead of yoga and green juice there was constipation and unpalatable plonk.
The most satisfying airport experience
And then, on the way home, it finally happened. I have never been so pleased to use an airport toilet in my life. Several days’ worth of physical and emotional baggage finally left Majorca and I emerged a changed woman, so naturally we celebrated with McDonald’s. Two meals cost less than a tenner, which felt almost suspiciously reasonable for an airport, although at 10.30 in the morning the only drink choices appeared to be beer or water.
Beer or water. At half past ten in the morning. Spaniards truly understands that holidays aren’t over until the plane takes off.
Would I go back? Maybe
Although I’d probably go somewhere else just to expand the number of places I’ve visited in my life, a good time was had and I’d certainly recommend it.
Despite accidentally returning to the vicinity of a previous holiday trauma, failing to reach the top of two hills, nearly throwing up on a boat, spending several days unable to shit and discovering that the wine was grim, it was a genuinely lovely holiday. The Talayot was peaceful, the beach was beautiful, the sea was warm, the weather was glorious and everything that was supposed to happen actually happened.
Flights, transfers, hotel. No drama whatsoever, which after starting the holiday by accidentally breaking into Room 237 at Travelodge Luton felt like something of a miracle. Thank you, Jet2!
I came home rested, considerably less drunk than anticipated and, eventually, mercifully able to poo.
9/10, would return. Possibly with an emergency bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and some Dulcolax.
