Trapped by a Volcano

Volcano

We chat at breakfast, another woman and I. She too has been on business. I wish I had been sensible like her. She is staying for another few days and hiring a car. She will have the chance to visit the beauty spots and see the sea. I make a mental note to invite my husband along on similar trips I make in the future. We are vaguely aware that they are talking about a volcano in Iceland on Sky News.

“It seems to be one thing after another,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply, “Haiti, Chile, even Manchester – well much of the UK. 5.2 wasn’t it? I guess everything is moving at once.”

They say that some flights may be disrupted by the volcanic ash. Not mine, I hope. No, it’s unlikely. I’m so lucky with travel. 

I have a brief discussion with reception. I agree to check out by 11.30. They order a taxi to take me to the bus shuttle. I need to take the 12.00 one. I pack – it takes me all of ten minutes. I carry on working. I resist looking at emails but I do have Twitter on.

There’s a tweet from Salford Quays. “The situation at Manchester Airport will be reviewed at 13.00.” That’s 15.00 here. What situation? I text my husband. He replies: “All UK airspace is closed (as is most of Western Europe) probably for 3 or 4 days. There will be no air travel until Iceland stops exploding.” It doesn’t sink in. Later, I find out he’d already sent me an email to this effect.

The journey to the airport goes smoothly. The bus driver does have to make a detour at one point as he’d not seen passengers waiting to be picked up. I fail to notice that most people on the bus are airport workers and not passengers.

We arrive at 12.45 – in plenty of time for a 17.00 flight. I look at the departure board. ZB641 cancelled. Ah! So Martin was right.

Airport

What to do? What to do? First of all, stay calm.

I go to the Airport Information desk. A pretty young Cypriot woman is on the phone. I hear “Luton” and “Manchester”. She finishes her call.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

I explain my situation. She points me to the handler’s desk. There is a queue of one. I eavesdrop. The same flight. We are given a phone number on a scrap of paper. A Cypriot free phone. Except I expect it’s not on a UK mobile. And neither is it, apparently, on a call box in the airport – oh yes, they still have those – which demands a coin. It’s useless, anyway, as  the free phone number is constantly engaged. On the one occasion I get through I’m in a queue – how long before my phone company cuts me off, I wonder. It’s not an issue. The call fails before I get through. I go back to the desk.

“This is just not working,” I say. The clerk dials the number.

“Yes it is,” she said. “I just got through.”

“But somebody needs to let them know that this is not satisfactory. The communications just aren’t working.”

“You have to be patient,” she says. I have been. For two hours so far. My phone will run out of battery soon… but I have found a power socket. I phone my husband and give him the UK number one of the other travellers has found. I go and have lunch.

My husband phones back. He has been on the case as have my employers. The airlines are obliged by Regulation EC 261/2004 for any delay over five hours to provide:

·        Meals and refreshments in relation to waiting time.

·        Two free phone calls, emails, telexes or faxes.

·        Refund of ticket if passenger decided not to travel.

·        Hotel accommodation.

·        Transfers.

My employer has stated that the company travel insurance will cover me until I’m back home. The airlines should pay but in the event that they don’t my employer will pay. Keep all receipts.

I finish my lunch and go back to the handler’s desk, armed with Regulation EC 261/2004.

“They never do that if it is the weather,” says the handler. 

“They’re breaking the law,” I say. I wonder how often they’ve broken the law in the past. 

She shrugs.

By now, several fellow travellers have contacted their insurers.

“They won’t pay,” said one. “It’s an act of God.”

Is it though? We have a small theological debate. Didn’t God invent the world and then leave it to its own devices? Isn’t this volcano an act of nature rather than of God? Sure, God can intervene as and when He wants to, and sometimes in response to our prayers. Catch might be: could volcanic eruption indeed be an act of God as punishment to the Icelanders for losing people’s money and then refusing to pay out of the taxes as we all have had to for one thing and another? Hmm.

This airport is going to get crowded soon, I think. Time for more action. I go back to the information desk. Another older woman has joined the young woman. She has the air of being rather senior.

“They’re breaking the law,” I said. “Are you able to let them know that?”

She agrees. “We can help you find a hotel,” she says. “Keep all your receipts. Use your Visa card to pay.”

“You need to let other passengers know that,” I said. “Otherwise your airport will very quickly become very uncomfortable.”

She nods and smiles. She gives me a list of hotels. “These are all near the airport,” she says, pointing to one page. She looks at her colleague, the young woman from earlier, who is now enjoying a two second respite from the stream of phone calls. The young woman nods. The older woman puts a cross by the hotel at the top of the page. “This is the nearest,” she says.

I return to my fellow travellers with the good news. On my way back, my husband informs me I am rebooked on a flight for Saturday evening. I’ll get in to Manchester at 1.10 on Sunday morning. Could be worse.   

I show my list to the others. “We can’t afford to stay in a hotel,” says one woman. “There are four of us.” I do a quick bit of mental arithmetic. I can probably last out for about a week on my own funds, but it will mean spending the money I’ve saved for the Inland Revenue out of my self-employed earnings. And then I’ll not be able to pay most of my bills next month. But at least I won’t have to sleep on the beach. And it looks as if I’ll get my money back somehow.

I realise I shouldn’t stop and chat any more. Hotels are going to be in demand. I need to make that phone call.             

Hotel

I dial the number at the top of the page, remembering to put in the 00 357.

“Good afternoon,” answers a delightfully cockney voice. “How may I help?”  

Someone who speaks English well. Thank goodness. This is not like me. I speak French and German fluently, Dutch quite well and can understand a smattering of other languages. I’m a great believer in making the effort. But I guess you can’t learn them all. I do feel very insecure here, linguistically. I’m so used to having the power that speaking a language fluently brings. Perhaps it’s good for me to have to survive as monoglots usually do, on speaking slowly, though I’ll never speak loudly or shout. And it isn’t a problem in Cyprus. They all speak fluent English. In fact, despite the sun, it’s quite hard to imagine you are in a Mediterranean country. They drive on the left here and their power sockets are the same as ours.

Do they have a room free for two nights, I ask.

“Yes, we do actually,” says the man I am convinced is English.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” I say.

“What’s your name, by the way?” he asks.

“Doctor James,” I say. Maybe that was a mistake. Will they wake me up in the middle of the night if someone has a heart attack?  

As I say good-bye to the others who are stranded, as I set off in the taxi, I am a trying to assess what the hotel will be like. All I took in from the information on the list is that it is two star. 

“Two star near an airport might be a bit uninspiring” I think.

The taxi costs €10.00 and seems to take an age. It actually takes less than ten minutes. If I’d looked more closely at the hotel list I would have saved myself some misery. The hotel is extremely well equipped, and though faded and in need of some renovation and TLC, spotlessly clean and extremely well run.

I arrive just as the two Cypriot brothers who run the place change shift.

“Is there internet access here?” I ask. I’m always so insecure if I can’t get online.

“Yes, we have Wi Fi here in reception. I can give you the code,” says the 7.00-a.-m.-to-3.00 p.m. “Or there’s a computer I can let you use.” Later in the week, the brothers install a computer with a coin slot. They have to: they can’t get on their computer for stranded guests trying to find ways home.

He insists on showing me to my room and carrying my case. The room is simple but clean and has a quirky door. But joy of joy, I have a sea view and a large sun terrace. The sun, I discover the next day, rises over my terrace. Great for getting washing dry. Even better for sun-bathing.

I get my passport back and the code for the Wi Fi from the 3.00 p.m.-to-11.00 p.m. brother. It’s beginning to be cosy.

The hotel turns out to be a gem. It has a good restaurant, very reasonably priced. There is a sun terrace and the sea is warm there. The brothers are always helpful, allowing us to hold on to rooms as flight after flight is cancelled, even keeping rooms for us if we venture up to the airport with our luggage in vain. They make and receive phone calls for us and accept emails on our behalf. They allow us to have Sky News on continuously in the bar except when the football is on and actually that is a welcome distraction for most of us. Above all, they are very reassuring.

They desperately want to renovate, but the leaseholder is refusing permission. This is worrying. If I win the lottery, I’ll buy the lease and rent it to them for a tiny profit share indefinitely.

“This could so easily be made into a four or five star hotel,” I say to one of the other guests as we get ready to depart.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he replies. “You’d lose the advantages of it being family run hotel.” He has a point.

Those two young men and the handful of other staff who run the place work really hard. Nothing is too much trouble. They dress casually but impeccably.

“I’ll be out of my room by twelve,” I tell 7.00-to-3.00, “but I’m just charging my mobile phone.”

“Don’t worry,” he says “When you’re ready.”

Unlike the “You-must-be-out-by-10.00-or-you-will-be-charged-for-an-extra-day” regime of most places. 

There is a negotiation every evening about what time we should eat. They have a largish group of Swedes who came for one night but end up staying three and have several meals at the place. Always one brother serves and one chef cooks. Yet the food is served quickly and is always hot and cooked to perfection.

They are amazing at knowing your room number and my bill is produced promptly and accurately when I suddenly get the all clear to fly.

A final nice touch is my last snack there with two other people also flying out at the same time. We have a starter each and order two lots of fruit between three of us. We go to pay our bill. We must pay cash this time as we can no longer put it in our rooms. 

“The fruit is on me,” says the 7.00-to-3.00. I want to cry and I want to hug the man. But maybe I’m too British for that.  

People

The first two other inmates I meet are a couple from Jersey – mother and daughter, an amazingly young octogenarian and someone just like me but younger. It is early. Anxiety has made us get up quickly. We watch Sky News as they sip coffee. There seems little hope of an early return. It occurs to me that I was so relieved to have got a room that I didn’t ask about breakfast. It’s served at 7.30 and only a little inferior to the one I had in the four star hotel in Nicosia. Maybe it isn’t inferior. There we only had margarine. Here we have butter.

People come and go a bit. Some stay just one night, then go back to friends, the holiday complex they had come from, or on to a four star hotel.

A hard core remains. Me, the Jersey group, the ex-pat, the man whose wife has gone home, the residents of the Cottage (two-bed apartment belonging to the hotel), the ex-RAF man who has come from the North and the Australian girl who works on a yacht.  And the Black Country group.

The Black Country group arrive late on Saturday night and make quite a lot of noise.

Oh no, I think. This is going to be the end of our peace.

But they quieten down quickly. They shout at each other, but we realise gradually that Nan is a little hard of hearing. There is healthy sibling rivalry between brother and sister, and affectionate banter between husband and wife and boyfriend and fiancée. We notice after a while that the son and the girlfriend and the younger sister are extremely kind to the grandmother, that the son and the daughter are incredibly polite, and that Mum and Dad care for their family a lot. The fiancée feels the homesickness more: she misses her father’s and her own grandmother’s birthdays. I personally find a lot of connections with them. They live in Dudley now but come from West Bromwich – as do I. They are from Hatley Heath, me from Tantony, two estates which are quite close to each other. Naturally we’re all WBA fans. There’s quite a bit of Baggy boing-boinging.   

The ex-pat arrives after breakfast on Sunday morning. She has spent two days at the airport waiting for a flight to Paris. A fight has broken out between two groups waiting to get back to the UK. She has had enough. Besides, today is her birthday. She promises tea and cake for later. During our extended stay she is able to give us much useful information.

The man whose wife has gone home tells us of Forest Schools where children learn to be a part of this rich and varied life. He knows the south coast of England as well as I do.

The Australian girl is on her way to meet her sister and her boyfriend in the UK. She works three months on, three months off on her yacht. And she knows the ways of this island well. 

We all have our stories to tell. Air line pilots who steer planes safely through difficult situations, sudden and lingering deaths,  holiday romances which turn into true love, split-ups which leave a baby between parents, learning to love an island, complex relationships, career changes, hill-walking, and finding this place years ago also because a plane was delayed – it’s all so much better than a soap opera.   

We all play our part too. One has an internet connection and can email Sky News. Another brings wisdom which comes with age, another the wisdom that comes with experience and two bring military precision. The youngsters are all heart and remind us to play. Those of us in the middle add a feeling of home. We hold together.

We get to know the brothers better. We learn of their families, meet their father and mother.

“It’s up to them now,” says the father. “It’s their business really.”

7.00-3.00 has three children, we discover. The middle one joins him every day for a short while after school. On our last day, as we wait for a taxi, his wife drives to the door with the children in the back. She is to drop off the middle one. We greet him and scrutinize the other two.

“I remember you from the airport,” she says. I remember her too but can’t quite place her at first. Then I know. She is the young lady from the reception desk.   

The Jersey couple and I eventually share a taxi to the airport. “I’ll say good-bye now,” I say as we head off in separate directions for our check-in desks. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if I see you on the other side.”

I do.

“You were right,” they say.

“Wasn’t I just?” I reply. I don’t admit I deliberately looked out for them. It’s hard to let go of friendships.      

Anxieties

“We could be trapped in a worse place,” we say to each other often enough. It’s reassurance rather than glee. There are anxieties.

People begin to run out of medication. It’s easy enough to get more – just take your prescription or your medicines to the local chemist. But people on medication are often on a lot of medication. The bills mount up. €50 on average. Yes, we keep our receipts and use our visa cards for everything. But just how long will the money last and who ultimately will pay?

I wok out I can survive for about two weeks, but will have to move money from one bank account to another and will have to use up some of the money I have put aside from my self-employed earnings for the Inland Revenue. I ask for an advance from my employer. They agree. After all, I am on a business trip. They will even pay if the airlines and the insurance don’t. Whatever happens, though, it will take a while and welcome though the advance is, it’s really from money ear-marked for paying bills.

I’m better off than many though. People are amassing huge debts on their credit cards. Others are borrowing from friends and family. Some are having bills paid directly by relations at home. Many are being forced to use up their leave or take unpaid leave. The latter is particularly bitter… at the exact moment when you need more money, your pay is docked one way or another. 

And even with all of that we are better off that some others. We watch some news stories of young people sleeping on the beach. My son has student friends trapped in Delhi.

Overland  routes are suggested, but just how much will they cost? The train through Turkey and Croatia sounds charming, but could I ever afford it?

There is talk of the Navy coming and we know that there are cruise ships sitting idle in Limassol. Their passengers can’t fly out. We could take a cargo ship from Limassol to Southampton, but it will take fourteen days and will cost €100 per day. Not really an option. There seems to be no let up in the ash and the eruption, though. We see ourselves here for weeks.

“We’ll have to work for you,” says the mother from Jersey to 3.00-to-11.00, as she starts clearing the table.

It’s the lack of information that is the worst. I can’t even get through to my airline. Even on the odd occasions when it is not engaged and I get through to the queue, I’m cut off before my call is taken. Although it’s a free phone number, I’m obliged to use my mobile so it isn’t really free. My husband gets through twice eventually, on the UK number, an 087 number, and the call cost £12.50. My flight gets rebooked twice. My flight is rebooked for the Saturday after the Thursday when I was supposed to have flow. The airport, the airline’s web site and their call centre give different information. They only cancel the flight very late on. It makes holding on to a hotel room very difficult.

We are all listless. I have a novel I am writing with me and some editing. I start a new blog. I can keep in touch with my students and the publishing company in which I’m a partner easily enough.  The free Wi Fi works well and I even mange to replace my classroom seminar with a distance-learning one. There are some lovely beaches nearby, the sea is warm and the temperature is just right for walking. Yet it’s hard to concentrate or relax. And you want to stay pretty much glued to Sky News. 

On Tuesday I walk into town. I need to find out where the banks are and where I might buy some toiliteries. I’m running a bit low. So it wasn’t even really just a leisure walk. I’m just coming back when I see a large ship coming towards the land and slowing down. I rush back now. Have they come to rescue us?

“It’s a container ship,” says the ex-pat. “People who come to live here have their things brought over in those.”

“Couldn’t they pack us all in?” I ask.

A particular low point comes on Tuesday evening. It seems as if the powers that be a have thrown up their hands in the air and given up for all their fancy emergency meeting just two days before. “Get yourselves back to a Channel port,” they say, “and we’ll get you home.”

Come on now! That’s the easy bit. And rather obvious if you’re on mainland Europe. I’m a seasoned traveller. I can get across the Channel on my own if I have to. I don’t mind queuing. I resolve that if my flight fails on Friday, I’ll start making my own way back.  

Too Little Too Late

So, as soon as I switch my phone back on after I’ve eventually landed I get a text message form O2 offering to help. I could have done with that information earlier. In fairness, though, I find out later when I need to check my bill they don’t charge me for a call mobile to mobile. I’ve accrued a bill of £21.50 on top of my normal charge. Not as bad as I’d expected. I do establish that about £3.00 of that was to the “free” phone number in Cyprus. There was another large chunk to our home landline in England. They haven’t charged me for my text messages. They’re still within my bundle. They are just making one count as four.

I also get text messages from the banks I use. They too offer help – in the form of a loan or an extended overdraft at 19% APR and the office is open 9.00 to 5.00. I note the number is an 0870 one. Is there any chance of getting through? And what will it cost? Especially from a mobile abroad? And only if appropriate. So is it all that much help though really? But they are waiving some fees – point of sale and ATM and cash advance fees on credit cards are refunded.                      

Silver Linings

Beach Day

I do manage to relax on one day: the day after my flight was cancelled the first time. There is nothing I can do. My flight is rebooked for the next night. I may as well enjoy the day. And I can do it without feeling guilty: I had a day’s leave booked from work. I resolve to spend four hours on the beach.

I choose the sun beds near one of the nicer–looking restaurants. It’s handy for the toilets too. They are delightfully clean. I spot an English family nearby.

“Where do you pay?” I ask.

“Oh he’ll come along in a minute,” the only man there with three females replies.

“Are you trapped as well?” I ask.

“No. What do you mean?” asks the older woman.

“All flights have been suspended because of the volcano in Iceland,” I say.

“Oh, we’re not due to fly until Monday,” says the woman. “Brian never said anything when we spoke to him on Wednesday.” 

I assume Brian is the younger woman’s husband.

“It might be all right by then,” I say. On Monday evening I briefly wonder how they have got on. I’m almost disappointed that they don’t turn up at our hotel.  

“Does this mean I won’t have to go back to school?” asks the little girl.

“Do you remember that fortune cookie?” asks the younger woman.

The older woman laughs. “It said ‘a delay may work in your favour’,” she explains to me.

Yes, the sun, the sand and the saltwater work their charm. I begin to relax. I make a respectable start on this year’s tan. I dip in the sea twice; it’s beautifully warm. I read a large section of my book.  It’s a good job that one of my colleagues here gave me two more. I make a mental note that this would be a good place to come on holiday.    

Birthday Party

Yes, our ex-patriot is seventy-one on the Sunday. She was due to fly to Paris to spend her birthday with her daughter and her grandchildren. She bravely spent two days at the airport. But then when her birthday came and there still wasn’t a flight. And then there was a fight….She’d had enough. I guess she spoke to the young woman at the airport information desk.

She makes herself known to us as we finish breakfast. I’m reminded of how in Irish pubs the newcomer is always welcome: it adds to the craic. A new face, some new gossip, some new information.  Most welcome.

And whilst she is making her way from the airport to the hotel, a friend makes herself busy. 7.00-to-3.00 already knows about the birthday.  

“It’s your birthday today,” he informs her. “Your friend says I’ve got to take you to buy a cake. We can go after the football.”

Thus it is decided.

I work a while whilst the football is on the television. It is a close one. Wigan against Arsenal. Wigan wins. In the last minutes.

“You a fan?” I ask ex-RAF.  

“You can tell I’m keen on Arsenal,” he says, pointing to his blue shirt.  

“Come on then,” says 7.00-to-3.00 – for on Sunday, when all the family and all the Cypriots come to lunch there is no distinction between 7.00-to-3.00 and 3.00-11.00, because they’re busy all day and then there’s the football. “Come on,” he says as the football ends. “Lets go and get that cake.”

They return twenty minutes later with two gorgeous cakes – a chocolate roulade and a creamy thing covered in nuts and strawberries.

“You’d never be able to go shopping for cake at 5.30 on a Sunday in France,” says the ex-pat. “Now who wants tea and who wants coffee, and if you want alcohol you’ll have to buy it yourself.”  

One brother makes the tea and one brother brings the plates and the knives. Mum from Jersey pours the tea while daughter cuts the cakes.  

Thus we toast our ex-pat’s seventy-one years. We sing Happy Birthday. It all somehow seals our friendship. And as a bonus there is cake for the next two days as well.         

Cyprus is Cyprus

Yes, the sun comes up over my balcony every morning. The sea is warm. Restaurants and bars are enticing. It’s particularly interesting to see which restaurants are full on Sunday at lunch time and to observe that the habit here is exactly the same as in the South of Spain: the extended family lunches out together on Sunday at the beach. Make a mental note – if we come here on holiday we’ll go to those restaurants that are full today. The fisherman’s cottages between us and the main part of the town are charming. The priests in their unusual dress are exotic. The nearby port buzzes. Yes, I will come on holiday here sometime.

Despite the worry, I can appreciate its qualities.               

Friendships

New friends are always welcome.

Airport 2

Wednesday 21 April and they’re suddenly saying the airways in Europe are opening. The mother and daughter from Jersey are due on a flight late today.

“I’ll come to the airport with you,” I say.

“Shall we go about nine?” asks the daughter.

“Your plane has the first priority to leave,” says the man whose wife has gone home. Apparently he talked to two Cypriot pilots at lunch time yesterday. We already knew the BA plane was already there. It arrived on Thursday 15 but didn’t have the chance to fly home.

“It’s too far,” says 7.00-to-3.00. “The old airport was okay.” The old airport, built in a hurry in 1974, was only replaced a few weeks ago. “There’s a bus that goes at nine thirty. The stop is by the newspaper kiosk.”

We ask if this is really right; the newspaper kiosk is on the wrong side of the road.

“No, it’s right,” says 7.00-3.00. “It’s just the Cypriot way.”   

We go to and wait by the newspaper kiosk. The printed time-table at the bus stop confirm the details. We just feel uncomfortable about being on the wrong side of the road.

Ex-RAF sees us. He’s going to the airport too. “The bus stops over here,” he calls. “You’re on the wrong side of the road.”

He is right. The bus arrives a few minutes later and stops opposite the newspaper kiosk. It costs €1.30. Twenty minutes later we are at the airport.

And twenty minutes after that, unbelievably, we are all either firmly booked on to a flight or on standby for one later today. I’ll fly to Manchester – good, my car is parked there. Ex-RAF is on standby for the same flight. The man whose wife has gone home will fly to Luton and the mother and daughter form Jersey will fly to London on the BA plane. The Australian girl is on standby for the latter.

We rush back to the hotel in shared taxis. We have to pack, pay our bills and get ourselves to the airport straight after lunch. It’s hard to believe. Such a contrast to yesterday evening and “Get yourselves to a Channel port.”     

The Magical Flight – Going Home

The screens say to check in at desks 9 to 16. I go to desk 10 as its queue is slightly shorter. The information changes on the screen in front of me. I shuffle along to desk 14 where my flight is now showing.

The screen changes again and shows only a flight to Gatwick. By now I have begun to chat with the others in the line.

“Shall I go and ask?” I say. I manage to get the attention of one of the clerks whilst the others keep my place in the queue and guard my luggage. 

“We’re not boarding the Manchester flight until 3.00 p.m.,” she says. “But your screens say   check-in is open,” I say.

She gasps and scurries off towards the airport information desk. She comes back a few moments later with the more mature of the ladies I met the other day.

“Ah, doctor,” she says. “It is fine. You may stay in-line here and they will check you in in a few moments.”  Oh dear, am I getting a reputation as a trouble-maker?

Twenty minutes later I am at the front of the line. They have no record of me on that flight. The clerk tries to phone the airline. He has about as much luck as I have had over the last few days. He sends the same clerk as before to run round to the other side of the airport to find the handler. She has officially become the gopher.

“You’ve given her my piece of paper,” I say. I’m uneasy because that is the only record I have of my booking number. He has the other paper with details of the original booking on his desk. I am stripped of printed proof.

“She’ll bring it back,” he says. “Could you step aside for a few moments?” 

He books a couple more parties in and the gopher returns. It is fine. I am booked on that flight. They just didn’t have time to pass on the information about the ones they’d booked manually. Later I find out that this happens to everyone who booked at the airport. The gopher consolidates her role. We also find out that the flight has been overbooked. Purely and simply understandable human error.

Everyone stays calm, even the disappointed passengers. It is hectic for the staff but they remain professional. We are, after all, happy that the airways are open and we all know that the backlog will clear eventually.

I now have a couple of hours to enjoy the pre-flight ritual of visiting the shops, reading, watching the planes, watching people and of course this time swapping stories. And tracking down my friends on the BA Heathrow flight.

Some people are tracking the flight. It is due to land forty minutes after we are supposed to start boarding. In that sense, it lands on time. We have to wait another hour to board. Everyone remains patient, even the numerous children on the flight. This is nothing after a week of waiting.

They do not hurry us as normal, with stories of slots about to be lost as we board. Maybe we should take a clue from that. The captain tells us that the flight had been postponed for another two hours. Air traffic control has to find ways for us to avoid the ash. It has now been brought forward an hour. He’s got us on board in case it gets brought forward again. Thirty minutes later the cabin crew perform the safety drill. False alarm. We still have to wait the other thirty minutes. I wonder how my BA friends are doing. Their flight was the one due out first and actually due out fifteen minutes before this one. 

I’m mildly amused when the captain informs us that he’s flying today on his day off. But he’s just had six days when he couldn’t fly, hasn’t he? I’m mildly irritated by one of the hostesses who harps on about disruption days, rest days and leave days. I’ve been very disrupted, I’ve not been able to rest and I’ve lost a day’s leave somehow. Still, once we are airborne, they do work very hard. The only irritant now is the constant stream of people going to the loo and the noise of it flushing. But it’s bearable. The flight is in fact very smooth and we’re given a complimentary soft drink. It’s a small gesture, but it is appreciated.  

We land exactly two hours late. It takes about an hour to get through the airport and to my car. I’m pleased to note I’m not charged for the extra six days’ parking. Forty minutes later I’m home, just ten minutes before midnight on the seventh day of my adventure.  

A Few Thoughts  

Regulation EC 261/2004 does offer considerable protection for the traveller. But maybe Ryanair’s Michael O’Leary has a point: why should his company pay out over £800.00 in hotel expenses to someone who has paid £8.00 for a flight? How are the airlines going to afford these payouts? Won’t it bankrupt them? In my case, my flight, including all taxes and other charges came to £503.00. I think about £468.00 went direct to the airline. My bills came to just over £300.00. They did eventually fly me back. They had had a week of planes sitting idle. Of course, they had no landing fees or fuel fees on those days, but I guess they still had to pay for their planes being parked at various airports. And they would still have staff salaries to pay. And they all had to be on standby everyday in case they were suddenly given the all clear to fly.

Will we actually get our money back, as they have promised, or will they force the law to change? What if they can’t pay? Will the governments of the various countries involved bale them out and put yet another burden on the taxpayers?  

Some insurers, bless them, are paying out even though they have an “act of God” clause. Do we need to revisit this “act of God” get- out clause? It strikes me that insurers do spend a lot of their time trying to get out of paying out money. From their point of view this is absolutely legitimate – after all they are a business and have to protect themselves and their staff. Yet from the point of view of their clients it is absolutely wrong. We take out insurance to cover the eventualities we don’t have the means to cover ourselves. It is precisely when something that cannot be helped happens that we need help. I guess, though, to have a system like that fully operational we would have to pay higher premiums – less people would go on holiday or go less frequently and the whole holiday industry would suffer. Fortunately most of the time we don’t need to call on our insurance.

Employers made some significant decisions about employees trapped away from home. Many were forced to take unpaid leave. My employer offered the option of unpaid leave or paid leave and if we were on a business trip we received full pay. It’s understandable for the small business that perhaps had to bring in casual labour to cover the work. But bigger organisations could possibly cover the cost and hardly notice even a large number of people being absent for a few days. People became inventive anyway and started to work remotely. I taught a two hour class in the north of England via my laptop from the lounge in the hotel in Cyprus. Several stranded school teachers also gave lesson via the internet and schools sent lessons to stranded students.     

At least one bank wrote off ATM and point of sale charges. At least one phone company suspended roaming charges on mobile to mobile calls and did something more generous than normal with roamed text messages.

“I should think so too,” said one commentator. “Roaming charges are fraudulent. The technology is there. It doesn’t cost the phone companies anything to let you use it.”      

I guess it comes down to the old argument about money being an abstract notion really. It should represent labour and raw materials but has got skewed somewhere along the way. There were bigger issues at stake for most. For goodness sake, a volcano was erupting and threatening to start another bigger eruption. We’ve had three major earthquakes in the last few months and several more in the last few years including one in the UK and a major tsunami. The weather is all over the place. Nature is on the move.

Nevertheless, money still has a stronghold and most of the arguments were in fact about money. There were some stories of profiteering: taxi-drivers who put up their fares or who deliberately took people to the wrong hotels. I didn’t see any of that myself. Some of the old  Dunkirk spirit came through in little ways and money did become less of an object: the attitude of guys at the hotel, who charged for a single room when I actually occupied a double and provided many  “it’s on the house” extras, their hard work, the camaraderie amongst the inmates, the patience at the airport, the waived fees on the airport car park, and the free drink on the way home.

And in the end, it was a bit of an adventure and was to be savoured. As the man whose wife had gone home said: “We’re part of history now. We’d better try and remember every minute of this so we can tell our grandchildren.”

Perhaps that’s why I’ve bothered to write it all down.