Ashes to Ashes: first blood, part 2
Barry Gregory updates us on the difficulties involved in being stuck by a sunny pool somewhere in an ashen Atlantic.
So, where are we at? Well, apart from Lanzarote, obviously.
The day's events really began for me last night when, over my third pint of San Miguel in a very friendly local pub, I read on my Blackberry that another ash cloud was expected over the UK, thus rendering even more unlikely the prospect of any significant movements on Tuesday.
I woke to find that this was indeed the case and that the bullish types at British Airways had been forced to abandon plans to resume flying - an eventuality that I actually predicted in my previous day's blog. Normally, I'm not shy about saying 'I told you so', but in this case I really wish I'd been wrong.
It appears there is a fair deal of brinkmanship going on the moment, with cash-strapped industry figures piling pressure on the authorities to lift the ban, with a seemingly diminishing regard for passenger safety. By Tuesday night, this had even culminated in BA claiming it planned to land 12 airborne flights, only to be apparently slapped down by NATS.
While I'm sure this charade makes all concerned feel very important, it's of little value to the thousands of confused and frustrated passengers.
In this vein, we were pleased to see the lunchtime announcement that Ryanair is to provide special flights from the three main Canary Islands to Madrid today and tomorrow, which we duly snapped up. So as it now stands we're off to Madrid later this week to follow an increasingly well-trodden path of hire cars and trains through northern Spain and France back to Blighty.
The ever-reliable Gordon Brown (I hope he won't make an appearance in every blog this week) muddied the waters further today by telling hundreds of stranded travellers in Madrid they should convene in Madrid to meet a specially-arranged fleet of coaches. Of course, he had most of his facts wrong and the only thing he got right was the name of the city, so we should perhaps feel grateful for small mercies.
More cogent sources now claim the centurion fleet will arrive in Madrid tomorrow night, coinciding nicely with our scheduled arrival courtesy of Mr O'Leary. Again, I'll believe this only when I see the rolling fields of Spain passing me from the window of a crowded and hopefully air-conditioned coach.
There is definitely a cost attached to an extended period of living the highlife, both for my shapely figure and my wallet. I'm beginning to resemble a pile of pink-coloured jelly in sunglasses, while my burgeoning poverty guarantees I'll be living off rice and beans for the next four weeks. Perhaps this is a happy coincidence but it certainly means I'll be overjoyed to get off this island.
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