Sunday Mercury reporter's long and winding road back from Madrid

Apr 25 2010 by Jonny Greatrex, Sunday Mercury

ON the last night of our trip to Spain we both knew our plans for the following day.

Chorizo baguette for breakfast, washed down with a thick strong coffee, check out of our room and see two more of Madrid’s sights – the Thyssen art gallery and sprawling Retiro Park – before a two-hour flight home to Luton Airport.

We did manage at least one of those things. The rest, however, was very different.

“Have you heard about the volcano?” read the text from my girlfriend’s mum when we woke up.

Assuming she must have had a few too many gin and tonics the night before, we went about the business of packing our bags and getting ready.

But as I clambered out of the compact shower in our £40-a-night double room, Amy shouted for me to come and watch the TV.

My rudimentary Spanish, which had just about got us through hotel receptions and ordering paella, was not needed.

Rolling news is the same anywhere.

A heavily made-up presenter was speaking, interspersed with shots of queues at airports and the now infamous volcanic ash cloud.

The first thing I did was ring my personal version of the Bank of England and International Rescue – and my parents quickly explained our situation.

British airspace was shut, along with a number of other countries, it could go on for days, and we might need to get back some other way.

Amy’s admirable, if somewhat, unhelpful response was to pull the duvet over her head and go back to sleep.

Meanwhile, I took a trip to the internet cafe which confirmed that our Friday evening budget Easyjet flight was cancelled.

The first re-arranged flight they could get us on would be Wednesday morning, meaning five days of extra expense before a journey which might not even reach take-off.

Our main hope, as with hundreds of thousands of others, was to find our way to a ferry port in northern France.

The thought of rattling through Spain and France all the way to Calais on an eternal coach ride filled both of us with dread.

As did a 30-hour ferry from either Bilbao or Santander on the Spanish Atlantic coast, which would get us to Plymouth or Portsmouth.

And then only if we could get tickets, which were selling fast.

The best option seemed trains, until we got to Charmartin Station where everyone else had the same idea as us, meaning that the sleeper service to Paris was already full for the next week.

Our only option was a local train to Hendaye on the border with France, followed by a TGV service to Paris. But at £350 for the trip we turned down the offer, certain something better would present itself.