I have been staying in Tenby in Pembrokeshire where I rented a top-floor apartment overlooking the harbour. It had a large roof terrace, which was big enough to hold a party for twenty, and it was enclosed by a brick wall of midriff height. This had the advantage that I could walk naked onto it, without my lower half being seen, to have an early morning stretch as I watched the sun rise over the harbour. One day I even managed to do Downward-Dog.
An added advantage was the width of the wall, which was wide enough to put one’s drink or food on. This was magical in the evening when I would watch the setting sun while I drank chilled white wine and sometimes ate white anchovies or dressed crab. Very rarely does life get better.
Breakfast however was an altogether different experience. I would sit down with my breakfast plate to be immediately dive-bombed by a squadron of large and aggressive seagulls, which gave passable impersonations of Stuka bombers. A couple would even try to dive in over my shoulder. From the ground, or even from other apartments, my response looked like a man possessed as I wildly waved my arms, shouted numerous expletives and may even have sprayed scrambled egg from my mouth as I defended my plate. At least I was fully clothed.
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I caught a flight from Gatwick Airport to Bordeaux. Having got through security and with 30 minutes to spare, breakfast beckoned but looking at the Departures board I saw my flight was already closed. So I raced to my gate with my name being called on the tannoy: ‘Mr. Paul Davies is now officially on the Naughty List.’
800 metres later I made it to the gate with 20 minutes to spare. ‘You are the last person to check in,’ I was helpfully informed by the check-in staff. ‘Please hurry to the plane,’ which I did. There was still a queue on the airbridge and the door closed with 10 minutes to spare. We then sat on the ground for another 25 minutes after the scheduled departure time. At least there were no tattoos. After all we were flying to Bordeaux not Bali.
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On arrival in Bordeaux, oh joy of joys, my bag had not arrived. There was not an airport staff member to be found nor an Easyjet one. After half an hour of wandering the airport and speaking to anyone with a pulse I found the requisite office. There was then a lengthy process to complete the lost luggage form and not, I emphasise, with an Easyjet staff member. Towards the end of the process Sebastian Chabal, the ex-second and back row forward for France, walked in as he clearly too had lost some luggage. He is known as Caveman for his long hair, shaggy beard and more-than- robust physical playing style. Just YouTube him. Being a rugby afficionado I should have said hello, but I was not in a good mood and he looked like I felt, which is how he looked on the rugby pitch. Best to move on.
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I eventually got my bag back after two days. In the meantime I had no clean underwear. Our friend and travelling companion, who is not French but is a France habitue, suggested without a hint of irony that I could wear my wife’s knickers. Clearly she has lived in France a long time. This worked well though my wife drew the line at the bra and definitely the lippy. I cannot tell you what a fillip this has given to our marriage. Thank you Gatwick, all is forgiven.