The longest day

I have many horrid pictures of Rio Ferdinand airport/Funchal Santa Caterina airport to upload, but I've chosen this one instead. It's one last shot from the hotel, of the view of an abandoned garden behind our beautiful hotel in the old town/zona velha of Funchal.

Up at 7am, with the cruise ships hooting in the rain. Sunrise around 7 30 am. Last tropical breakfast of pienapple, melon, strawberries, grapes, kiwi and yoghurt, while the rain made ripples on the pool. Waiting in reception for our transport, saying our goodbyes. Work phone calls pouring in as we approach the airport. Rain, rain, rain.

GG gets placed in a wheelchair and abandoned. We join a family of four, who has a boy with autism, and who turn out to live four miles from Stroud. Also in our party is a border collie, a chihuahua and their respective owners. The incoming flight doesn't land. CleanSteve is tracking its progress from home. I open a tracking app too.

The plane flies over Madeira, does a wee loop, then heads off into the Atlantic again. Eventually it lands at Tenerife South. We are told nothing, but the departure board tells us our flight is delayed/atrasado.

I spend our remaining coins on Bica (espresso coffee), pasteis de nata (Portuguese custard tarts) and cappuccino for GG, who is looking very Duchess-y in her green wheelchair. The airport fills up, and people begin flopping and flapping. We are taken upstairs to departures, we complete the formalities, but nothing happens. Just more flapping and flopping.

After many, many hours we are transported to our plane and GG is asked if she CAN walk up the steps to the plane. I nudge her to say yes, because she's about to say no. I think she has started to think that the boy who has autism can't walk, even though he's been running around the airport. It's been a long day.

After about an hour of sitting on the plane, we are permitted to take off. The head steward, who is very camp, explains that the plane had had to land on Tenerife, refuel and wait out the rainstorm. Wind, low cloud and heavy rain all affect landing at Funchal, which is a tabletop of tarmac built of stilts into the side of a mountain. (Google some images, it's remarkable). We take off around six, get to Birmingham at nine. The head steward is so tired that he welcomes us to Manchester airport. This causes consternation among passengers.

The assistance guy at Birmingham retrieves our luggage from the belt. I tell him I have a rainbow luggage strap, and he interprets this as a Pride strap and starts asking GG and if we are friends or sisters. He can't quite believe us, GG is so smartly attired, while all I need is a straw donkey and a bit more sunburn to make me look like the ultimate 1970s tourist. My multi coloured jumper and blue sunhat are horribly out of place in Birmingham. I consider telling him that GG is my mother, but she would never forgive me...

Fortunately we are handed into a taxi almost straight away, GG finds her car, and we exit the M42 on to the M5 without killing anyone. (GG has a fear of motorways, her old-school husband didn't let her do much driving while he was alive). We arrive back in Stroud at about midnight. I am still wearing my multicoloured jumper and face mask.

Indie the cat and CleanSteve greet me warmly. I have a cup of tea and fall into bed. I have to be up for work at stupid o'clock on Tuesday. Another day, another island.