Seville; Wednesday, 12 March, 2008

This morning the Phantom Driller was not around so I managed to get an extra hour in bed and woke a little after 9. By the time I had showered, shaved and had breakfast it was time to pack up my bags and make my way to the airport bus.

I walked back through the lanes of the Barrio Santa Cruz towards the bus stop, and arrived the wrong side of the traffic lights as it left. Thankfully, I had given myself enough time that if I missed that bus, the next one would still get me to the airport with more time than I actually needed, so I brought a bottle of water and went and sat in the park near the bus stop for twenty minutes.

The journey to the airport, through the airport and onto the plane was a smooth as any other journey I have made and the flight was uneventful, until we reached the coast of France.

Whilst I had been sunning myself in southern Spain, The UK was being battered by the worst storms of the winter, and some of the worst weather in years. I had seen it on the TV news of an evening as I was getting ready to go out, but wasn’t really taking it in, except in a smug way. As the plane started its decent into Gatwick it was clear that the wind was still blowing quite strongly and so the next twenty minutes proved to be one of the bumpiest and least pleasant landings I have ever made.

By the time the plane touched down there were several people happily filling the sick bags, and there was no talking going on. There wasn’t any enthusiasm for a round of applause that one passenger tried to start up, everyone was nursing their churning stomachs. Whilst there was never any doubt about the safety, the plane was always in control, it was just so rough that everyone just wanted to get onto solid ground, not helped by the gusts of wind which were whipping around the apron at Gatwick and making the plane rock whilst it was on stand. I have never been so glad to get onto the air bridge just so that my stomach could calm down.