A Lanzarote… But Not As We Know It

I wasn’t sure about publishing this blog, as our second week wasn’t much different to the first, but in true British fashion, we’ll have a polite moan about it anyway.

Our second week began exactly as the first ended in Lanzarote, windy, cloudy, and not remotely the weather that I’d ordered when we booked this holiday. We persevered with our daily walks, but the ever increasing wind has made it less “leisurely stroll” and more “endurance sport”. At one point, I’m fairly sure I walked past myself coming back. 

The wind has also developed a personal vendetta against my hair, which spends most of the day either in my eyes or lodged firmly in my mouth. A real treat. Meanwhile, I continue trying to make the only cardigan I brought work with every outfit. Yes, it’s black, yes, it goes with everything, but even so, there’s something deeply ridiculous about wearing a chunky cardy with shorts and sandals. Packing wise, I was clearly overly optimistic. Or delusional.

What I failed to mention in my last blog were a couple of low points.

Firstly, I developed the squits during week one and spent far too much time on the loo. Not ideal, and certainly not standard behaviour for me on holiday. We normally pride ourselves on having the constitution of an ox. 

Secondly and not  my fault, was the delightful sewage smell wafting from the bathroom. Now, from previous trips to Lanzarote, we know the drains can be a bit… expressive. The occasional whiff? Fine. Open a window, crack on.

But as the wind picked up, so did the stench. Sleeping with the windows open while a 30mph gale howled outside wasn’t exactly restful. It felt less like a holiday and more like camping in a wind tunnel with plumbing issues.

A trip to reception left us feeling hopeful, they said they’d sort it. Their solution? Bleach. Unsurprisingly, the smell remained, stubborn as ever.

Back to reception we went. “We can’t move you, we’re full, but we’ll do what we can.” In the meantime, we engineered our own fix, bathroom window wide open, towel wedged under the door like we were containing a biohazard. It worked… mostly.

Staff seemed to recognise us immediately, which is never a good sign. We didn’t even have to say our room number, they just knew. Always reassuring. We got the feeling that this was a known problem of our apartment in bad weather. 

We asked other guests if they’d experienced anything similar. They hadn’t. Lucky them.

Then, just as I recovered, Steve went down with it. His night was… memorable. Let’s just say there was a lot of noise. I don’t know why men feel the need to announce their suffering to the entire postcode when they’re throwing up, but there we are.

After what felt like a small fortune in bleach, air fresheners, and diffusers, a maintenance man finally arrived armed with a sealant gun. His mission, to seal the bote sifónico—the bathroom floor drain. As he left, in broken English, he suggested the smell was due to the weather and wind. Naturally. Blame the weather.

To be fair, the sealant did help a bit, although by then I’m convinced the smell had permanently settled itself in our nostrils.

As Steve began to recover, the wind finally dropped. Perfect cycling weather, of course—just in time for him to be too exhausted to enjoy it. Typical.

Towards the end of the week, the sun finally made an appearance. We embraced a slower pace, gentle mornings pottering about, followed by afternoons on sun loungers. A few sunny siestas worked wonders in helping us recover. 

All in all, the holiday was a bit of a washout. The Canaries had some of their worst winter weather in years, and with both of us taking turns to be unwell, it wasn’t quite the dream escape we’d imagined.

But, in true British spirit, we made the best of it. We slowed down, binge watched a couple of box sets, read a few books, and while we may have come home paler than usual, it was still infinitely better than being at work.

And at least we’ll always remember it… if only for the smell.