This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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Every Ash Cloud Has A Silver Lining
This trip report begins, I suppose, as the tale of someone else's trip rather than our own (so, as ever, apologies for its length). As has been our habit ever since the fortuitous arrival of Tizer some 4 and a half years ago, spring has seen a low-key relay of family members to-and-fro sunny Barbados. First the Senior ponds (my dear Ma 'n' Pa) for a week or two of peace and quiet. Then we mdviponds follow on, misty-eyed with thoughts of long days on the beach, snorkelling in the cool Caribbean Sea and unlimited access to free babysitters. Although we had to resort to the old palaver of flying out of LGW once again (our last two or three flights have been out of MAN), we'd managed to secure a batch of well-priced Zs and a generous discount at our favourite hotel.
Add to this the fact that tracking down those elusive Zs would be all the more difficult - perhaps even impossible - next year, as Tizer starts full-time school in September, leaving us saddled with working around the school holidays. So we considered ourselves fortunate indeed to be looking forward to one (potentially) last holiday with Grammy & Grandad in the Barbadian sunshine.
The Senior Ponds had followed the well-worn route from LBA to LGW the night before their VS flight, and had 'phoned us from the safe surroundings of the Hilton executive lounge - sipping red wine and nibbling crudités - to let us know that all was well in the world. Delightful. And, more importantly, it'd be us next week. Then the following morning we awoke to the completely unexpected news that Eyaf... Eyafaya... Efayafa... a big volcano in Iceland had erupted. An ash cloud, the like of which is usually the sole reserve of Jerry Bruckheimer's wet dreams, was steadily swamping the skies above Great Britain. All Scottish airports were shut, Manchester wouldn't be far behind, London airports were preparing for the worst. I 'phoned the Senior Ponds to break news that they were already all too well aware of.
This wasn't good; if they didn't get out to Barbados today I knew where the blame would be placed - not Efyfya... Eyofof... the big volcano in Iceland, not the majesty of the planet's plate tectonics, not, even, the big G himself (that's God, not Gordon Brown). No, the proverbial can would have to be carried by dutiful, Number 1 Son. You know, the one who talked them out of camping trips to Newquay and first coerced them onto a plane to Kefalonia in 1981. I could hear my father now: "This would never've happened if we'd gone to Crantock Beach Holiday Park..." That's how it would pan out.
So, a desperate media frenzy (contained only by the confines of our bedroom) ensued: BBC News on the TV; CAA, NATS, Gatwick, Sky News and - of course - this esteemed site on the Mac; my office on the landline, Senior Ponds on the mobile. With hindsight, there wasn't a gnat's testicle of difference I could have made to the situation, but it made me feel slightly better. To be fair, if their flight was cancelled, at least I'd have a head-start in making alternative arrangements for Ma 'n' Pa (be it an an alternate flight, another night at the Hilton or a hire car home).
The news came through that LGW was going to be closed at 11:30 - mum and dads' flight was scheduled for 10:00, so I relaxed a little. It was quarter to 10, though, before dad called to say that UC passengers were being sent down to the gate, so things were starting to look a little tight. When dad 'phoned me again at half 10, they were still clearly on the ground, but at least they were on board. I resorted to the VF schedule tool and live departures on the VS site to try and find out what was happening:
10:45. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. 10:55 came and went. Refresh. Refresh. 11:00. Still no dice. Shit. 11:05. Refresh... refresh... refresh... airborne at 11:09! The Senior Ponds were on their way, and I was off the hook.
Pleased that all was good in the world, I hot-heeled it over to my office, joking with my secretary that it would be just our luck if this ash cloud thing lasted a week and scuppered our flight. We laughed! A week? Really! Everyone knew this would all clear up in a couple of days.
But it didn't, did it? It dragged on. Day after day. After day. UK airspace would be closed until 'at least' 6am tomorrow. Then 'at least' midnight. It went on and on without even the slightest sign of reprieve. Cheery geologists appeared on TV to tell us in delighted tones how last time there was an eruption of this particular big volcano in Iceland (the name of which they pronounced with gleeful ease), it lasted for two years! Two bloody years!
And then, on the Monday, a glimmer of hope: Some reports were suggesting the cloud was shifting and that parts of UK airspace might open up on Tuesday. We were due to fly from Leeds Bradford on the Wednesday, so this could be just what we'd been hoping for. Packing of suitcases - which, until now, Mrs V had been holding off even starting - commenced with vigour. Spirits were high.
We woke on Tuesday morning to find... no change. Nothing. No end in sight. The wind had shifted, the volcano continued to belch ash unabated, and packing ceased. By that evening, we realised it was time to tell Tizer the bad news. We'd been dropping hints for the past couple of days in a pre-emptive attempt at softening the blow, but having to tell a 4 year old she's not going on holiday a day before she thinks she's setting off isn't the most fun I've ever had. We contacted the Senior Ponds in Barbados via webcam to let them know too, and there were tears all round. Tizer was pretty much inconsolable.
At one point she disappeared to her bedroom, only to return minutes later with a small oil painting of Barbados, bought on a previous trip, that she'd taken down from her wall. She held it up to the webcam in silence, only able to stare dolefully at her distraught grandparents 4 and half thousand miles away. A little melodramatic, perhaps, but it was heartbreaking nonetheless, even for a hardened Yorkshireman like me.
Tizer went to bed after this and more-or-less cried herself to sleep. We put the news back on: a plane was coming in from Canada, landing at Newcastle apparently. Strange. A number of BA flights, it was suggested, were heading for the UK, regardless of the ban. The CAA stressed that LHR was closed, but it seemed that this was exactly where at least 20 of Mr. Walsh's shiniest aircraft were heading. What the hell was going on?!? Then the Transport Secretary and a nice lady from the CAA were on a London street somewhere in front of a barrage of cameras.
The nice lady from the CAA spoke: UK airspace, she told us, would be re-opened by lunchtime tomorrow. Mrs V and I exchanged looks in stunned silence. We knew that the same two thoughts were crossing our respective minds. Firstly, this was the greatest news! This was news that we'd given up all hope of ever hearing. We were going on holiday! Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, why - for the love of god - couldn't they have come out with this statement an hour ago? Why couldn't they have saved us from mentally scarring our 4 and half year old to the extent that she may well be in and out of therapy for most of her adult life?!? At the very least, I expect her to develop a deep phobia of volcanos...
But to hell with that - the mdviponds were going to Barbados!!!
Packing, once again, was order of the day. An operation that would normally take Mrs V at least 2-3 weeks under normal circumstances (for your humble correspondent, dear reader, shies away from such duties) was now going to be condensed into mere hours. I was informed in no uncertain terms that if I complained at finding myself short of anything other than tickets, passport, money - a.k.a. The Traveller's Mantra - and spare pair of underpants, this would be the last holiday we'd embark on together. Okay, message received and understood. I packed my hand luggage (hey, I'm not entirely useless!): Mac, iPod, Bose QC2s, camera, book. There, done. Then, on reflection, I slipped in a couple of pairs of pants. Better safe than sorry, I always say.
The following morning dawned bright and cloudless - both of the conventional and volcanic ash type. The news was still looking very promising. We woke Tizer, who asked if the 'bolcano' had gone yet. We told her that it hadn't gone altogether, but we were going to go to the airport and 'see how it goes from there'. Trust me, if this thing went tits-up again, we didn't want to get her hopes too high.
Leeds Bradford was spookily quiet. The only check-in desk open seemed to be for our Flybe flight down to LGW. As such, we were airside and munching on a tuna baguette in a matter of minutes. Us, and about 40 other people, all eyeing each other warily, none quite believing yet that they were flying anywhere today. There was a general, very British sense, that this could be one highly elaborate and terribly cruel practical joke, and no one wanted to end up looking like a fool if it was. Jeremy Beadle may have passed, but perhaps his spirit lives on. At the gate, our number was down to 11, all of whom trailed in silence onto our awaiting plane. No mention of ash from the Captain, a straight forward taxi and - beyond our wildest dreams only 20 hours previously - at 14:30 on the 21st April 2010, we were airborne! It felt like we had the skies above Britain to ourselves and, on reflection, we probably weren't far wrong. Bloody fantastic!
By the time we reached the Hilton - with cases dumped and boarding passes purloined at Twilight check-in - if felt like most of the uncertainty and anxiety of the past week were behind us. We decanted our remaining bags into a lovely executive room, then headed off to the dubious epicurean delights of Frankie & Bennys' for a spot of dinner. I've later discovered that we were, in fact, in the esteemed presence of V-Flyer man-about-town, Mr HDubya himself. Apparently he spied us, but felt it wise to keep his distance in case we tried to get him to pick up our tab. He's a sharp fella that HDub. Frankie & Bennys' served their usual, distinctly average fair, the only saving grace being that if I have to pay for an average meal, I'd rather it be at Frankie & Bennys' prices than Hilton prices.
Back to the Hilton lounge for a couple of complimentary G&Ts and a few nibbles (one must get one's money's worth, you know). The manager of the lounge was a lovely lady from Portugal, with a little girl about Tizer's age who she has to leave back home for a week or more at a time when she's working. She told us that she misses her daughter terribly and, perhaps understandably, took to Tizer instantly, fetching her crayons and paper, warm milk, cookies, chocolate spread a various other sweet looking things which would no doubt have kept our daughter up partying all night had we let her eat them all. Tizer settled to her favourite hobby - drawing incessantly - whilst Mrs V read and I scanned the web to check the skies were still clear for the morrow.
I noticed at the seats opposite ours a gentleman in a pastel pink shirt, with matching face, who was scowling our way and - for want of a better word - 'harumphing'. His copy of the Daily Telegraph was increasingly becoming a prop to rustle in a bad-natured fashion, to fold and re-fold irritably, rather than something merely to read. This continued for some 10 minutes or so, until Tizer put down her crayon and asked Mrs V if she could have another cookie please. Well, this was clearly beyond the pale for Pink Face. With one final, spittle-laden 'HARUMPH' he slammed his now sadly tattered and barely recognisable Telegraph upon the table and, with his meek-looking wife in tow, went to storm out of the lounge.
But not without one parting shot; from the doorway of the lounge he announced: "This is like trying to have a drink in a bloody kindergarten!!". I enquired politely as to just how many kindergartens he'd drunk in in order to make this fascinating comparison, but he declined to enlighten me, levelling instead a vengeful, quivering finger at Tizer, declaring, "She should not be in here!!". And off he flounced.
I should have let it be. I nearly always let it be. I'm British; I'm a let-it-be kinda guy. I don't do Confrontation. This occasion, though, was different. I've put up with all sorts of varied rudeness, vulgarity, and plain bad manners in my time and seldom made a muff, but this pastel-visaged oaf had besmirched Tizer's honour, and it could not go unchallenged. I pursued Pink Face as he waddled his way - surprisingly swiftly - down the corridor away from the lounge and, without going into detail, I tore off a strip or two. I quite surprised myself actually. But in all of our travels, flights, stays in hotels and meals in restaurants, Tizer has behaved - if not impeccably - then, at the very least, considerably better than the vast majority of four-year-olds (and a fair number of adults) I've witnessed over the years. Tizer's crime - such as it was - was to drink warm milk and do some colouring-in.
I returned to the lounge, where the manager couldn't apologise enough. She went and spoke to Pink Face too apparently, to explain that Hilton policy was that well-behaved children were always welcome in the lounge and, if he had a problem with that, perhaps he ought to drink downstairs in the general bar. A chap who'd been sitting to the other side of us approached me. He was younger and much bigger than Pink Face. If this guy had a problem I wasn't too sure that my newly found love of Confrontation would stretch to a gentleman of his proportions. He grinned, shook me warmly by the hand, and told me that if the drinks weren't already on the house, he'd have happily bought me one. Nice bloke. Made me feel much better. After all the excitement, Mrs V and Tizer (who'd carried on drawing oblivious to the drama around her) retired for the evening whilst I stayed with my new-found friend and had a few more drinks.
But bed soon beckoned, and I headed back to the room where I slept the sleep of the righteous until our alarm roused us at 7 the following morning. Straight on with the TV - please don't let the ash cloud be back, please don't let the ash cloud be back. Result: no ash cloud, in fact, barely a mention, the news seemed to have returned reluctantly to an argument between two former public school boys and a grumpy looking Scottish bloke in an ill-fitting suit. We grabbed our bags and made for the Clubhouse, dispensing with mdvipond family tradition for once and actually emptying the room safe of our passports and boarding cards before we left.
Arriving at the new Clubhouse was a little confusing, as they've craftily moved the door, so it took a spot of bemused mooching around upstairs in departures before we finally spotted the hallowed portal. Touch of bad news as we were greeted at reception: what with all the ash cloud fuss (Ash cloud? What ash cloud?) they hadn't managed to load UC grub onto the plane so today's flight would only be offering - sharp intake of breath - Economy food service! Well, I was all for turning on my heel and heading back to the Hilton, but Mrs V quickly reprimanded me, pointing out that if someone had told me 36 hours ago that I could fly to Barbados as long as I ate Y food, I would have leapt at the chance. In my defence, I can still taste the last Economy meal I ate, and that was more than 8 years ago, so I felt she may have been underestimating the situation slightly, but I gave her the benefit of doubt and stood firm. Surely 'Chicken or Beef' couldn't be all that bad, could it...?
It's all terribly swish in the new Clubhouse, with more of a dedicated dining area than before, a large glass-screened beauty area, as well as the installation of a large, fibre-glass 'faux' rock that - for some inexplicable reason - Tizer was particularly taken with. She took to stroking it and declared it her friend. Strange kid.
Much of the dining is of a communal nature, with a few small tables, but one large, long table running the width of the Clubhouse. We settled at this - feeling a little like we were sitting down for school dinner - and ordered full breakfasts (just in case there was nothing fit for human consumption on the plane), coffees and juice. It all came pronto presto and was very good indeed. Shortly after being served, we were joined at 'our' table by a group of chaps who would no doubt delight in being described as 'Geezers' (in a 'lads-about-town' sense, rather than a 'geothermal-water-spout' one). They were so cool, they didn't take their shades off at breakfast. I had a brief, 'oh god, please don't let them be on our flight' moment, but it quickly transpired that the Geezers were heading for Vegas. And, as far as they were concerned anyway, Vegas better look out.
The Geezer with the most chunky gold jewellery on (and bear in mind here, they all had a lot of chunky gold jewellery on) appeared to be their 'leader'. It seemed he was delivering their pre-trip pep-talk:
"Now, listen 'ere lads. Once we're art there, all bets are off. You know wha' I mean?". I didn't, but the other Geezers all seemed to be nodding along enthusiastically enough.
"One or two of ya ain't hit Vegas yet, but you're in for a treat, right?. It's gonna be a proper larf. It's a different claaass out there, init? You're there for a good time, not a long time, right? So, watchoo gonna need? Watchoo gonna need?? You're gonna need a fixer, intchya?" A 'fixer'? I was starting to feel like an extra in a bad Guy Ritchie movie.
"That's where Johnny comes in. 'E's a fixer. 'E fixes fings. You wan' it? Johnny got it. That's what he does. He's a fcukin' 'andy geezer to know in Vegas, you know what I mean? 'E's a fcukin' diamond".
And at this point, dear reader, I'm afraid we decided to move away, as the language was starting to get a little too choice for the tender ears of a small child and, I'm sorry to say, after the previous evening my appetite for Confrontation was at an all time low. Anyway, our flight had just been called and we knew we had a decent hike ahead of us, so we allowed Tizer to have one last photo taken of her with Rock, before she kissed it a tearful goodbye and we made our way towards our awaiting plane.
Thanks to one of Pete's many wonderful tools, I already knew that we were going to be on Lady Penelope, who would no doubt be all tanned and well rested after a week's break on the tarmac at BGI (G-VFAB being the last plane to get out of LGW the previous week before the ash cloud descended). There was no obvious priority boarding in place, but it looked like the majority of Y were already on and - with the hit-and-miss affair that priority boarding is nowadays - we've got rather used to weedling our way to the front of the queue, purple boarding passes held high in the air.
On board, and straight into suites 12A & K and 14K, up front behind the nose cone, our favourite spot on a 747. It struck me for the first time that although 12 A & K (or, on a LGW config, 6 A & K) are so close together the ottomans actually touch, they're still on opposite sides of the plane and, as such, they have two separate crew members servicing them. Which is confusing sometimes, especially if you're sat together as a couple. Anyway, a really pleasant pair of crew (one for each of us) swapped our jackets for Champagne and confirmed that a child's meal had been loaded for Tizer. Matters took another quantum leap in the right direction when the kindly and bespectacled FA working my side of the cabin informed me that UC food had in fact been loaded for the flight! Oh happy day! Never been so pleased at the prospect of boil-in-the-bag J class nosh in all my life!
I sat back, sipped my Champers and took stock of an extraordinary week. If I were a betting man (which, bar losing on the Grand National every year, I am not) I would have staked a monkey, a pony, in fact any miscellaneous animal you can name on still being back in Leeds at this point, watching the rain with a tear-stained child at my side. Whether we took off on time or not escapes me; I really didn't care. As Tizer shouted "Daddy, we're in the air!" I was finally convinced we were on our way. This may have been her - by my reckoning - 46th flight, but at her age each one is still a novel experience. This one was all about being amazed at being 'Really High Up!', and she remained impressed by each passing cloud until V-Port fired up, at which point the beauty of the skies was instantly forgotten and quickly replaced by Disney's 'The Princess and the Frog'.
Resigned as we now are to the abject absence of Tanqueray 10 on these flights, Mrs V and I accepted the offer of a Bombay Saphire and tonic, which came with a satisfying wedge of lime, so not all was lost. As is tradition, I launched myself into a game of Trivia on V-Port, but found only one other competitor who quickly crumbled and quit under a barrage of my mighty know-it-all-ness. Which was a shame really, 'cause then there was no one else to play with, and it's no fun on your own. It's the same at home - there isn't a family member, friend, acquaintance, neighbour or passing postman who'll play Trivial Pursuit with me anymore. They claim that I secretly memorise the answers in my spare time. I don't; I just have a lot of space in my brain for storing useless crap.
I gave Triv up as a bad lot and decided to put a film on instead. 'The Fantastic Mr Fox' caught my eye. This was the first proper book I ever read, so I had to watch the movie. As I set it up, lunch orders started to come our way. I'd opted for the asparagus soup, which was all the things an UC soup should be (warm/gloopy). This was followed by the lamb pie which, whilst very tasty indeed, veered a long way from what this humble correspondent would deem to be 'pie'. I'm sorry, but a lamb stew with a piece of puff pastry plonked on top as an afterthought, maketh not a pie. It was very good though.
Mrs V also had the soup, then the cod, which she declared as 'dry'. She's a positive Egon Ronay, my wife. Tizer picked at a plate of chicken nugetty things, but I could tell she was really saving herself for ice cream. I had a really nice white wine with the soup, which I think was some kind of Viognier blend, and a decent red - the name of which escapes me, but it might have been Spanish - with the 'pie'.
To celebrate the unexpected advent of the UC menu on this flight, I felt duty bound to order the pecan pie and custard, which was sticky and nutty and, frankly, quite delicious. It was also a real pie, which was reassuring. I was well into 'Mr Fox' by this time, and I have to say, short of the title and a few of the characters, it was knack-all like the book. And Mr Fox sounded just like George Clooney too, which was slightly off-putting. However, it was growing on me. Rather quirky, slightly off the wall. A very clever little film which this reviewer gives... 4 stars!
In the time it had taken me to me to play a little Triv, eat lunch and watch 'Mr Fox', Tizer had managed to watch 'The Princess and the Frog' twice, back-to-back (thank you V-Port!), so I felt it was time for some exercise. She and I embarked on another one of our fateful trips through PE and Economy for a stretch of the legs. Those who read my TR from our MCO flight last year will appreciate just how brave I was in taking Tizer back into the Y cabin (her previous foray coincided with the serving of egg sandwiches and resulted in her declaring loudly that Economy 'smelt bad'). I went ahead of her for once, just to sniff things out (so to speak) and all seemed aromatic enough.
It was, for pretty obvious reasons, more-or-less packed in Y, as it was throughout the plane, and it took us quite a while to make our way to the back before returning to UC via the opposite aisle. Of course, once back in UC we didn't quite make it back to our seats, mainly because the bar got in our way. Another wine for me, a lemonade for Tizer, and Mrs V - her sixth sense no doubt tingling the moment I sat on a bar stool - soon joined us.
We got chatting with an awfully nice chap who looked like a bald Nigel Farage (which we really shouldn't hold against him). He and his family return to Barbados every year and stay at Sandy Lane (again, probably shouldn't hold that against him either). He'd had his Christmas trip cancelled after being involved in a car crash, and the re-scheduled trip the previous week cancelled because of the ash cloud, so he was one happy camper to be finally on his way. He and I set-to at putting the world to rights - as men sat at bars are wont to do - whilst Mrs V and Tizer returned to their seats.
By cleverly alternating a glass of wine with a glass of water, I discovered I could spend significantly longer at the bar without getting leathered, which was something of an epiphany for this old soak. And the time just flew by. I met another gentleman who won £3000 on the Readers' Digest prize draw 30 years ago, set up his own business with it, and now flies out to his own pad in Barbados twice a year. Nice work if you can get it. Mrs V and Tizer rejoined me after a little while and we enjoyed a jolly social time with two or three of our fellow passengers and the very personable bespectacled FA who kept us all topped up with wine, water and lemonade. It was only the tea service which rested us from our bar stools, so we toddled back to our suites to indulge in a sticky bun and a nice cup of tea.
Looking at my watch, I realised this was going to be a 'one-film-flight', always a sign that a good time had been had. I only really had time to enjoy another cup of tea and watch a couple of episodes of 'Family Guy' before the crew were coming through mugging people for their headphones. I'm often left with the feeling that even if one or more of the engines were on fire and altitude was being lost at a terrifying rate, the crew would still steadfastly ensure that all the headphones were collected in. Clinging stubbornly onto my Bose QC2s, I managed another 10 minutes of Peter, Stewie et al before V-Port was switched off.
Fluffy white clouds flitting past our windows suggested we were fast approaching Barbados. Then there it was, all green and blue and palm fringed. Never been so glad to see an island in all my life! We clipped across the northern tip, before heading down the west coast, waving to the Senior Ponds as we passed our hotel. Tizer was soon announcing "Daddy, we're on the ground!" and with unseemly speed (by Barbados standards at any rate) steps were attached and doors were flung open, bringing in that evocative, hot, spicy Caribbean air.
Disembarking order was adhered to, so UC were off first, but we found ourselves behind the tail end of a previous flight at immigration. Still, it only took us 25 minutes or so to get through, and our cases were all but waiting for us. A friendly neighbourhood Skycap helped us outside with our cases and asked if we'd arranged a car. Archie, one of the taxi drivers from the hotel, was supposed to have been picking my parents up the previous week but had failed to show up and, true to form, it looked like he'd done the same for us. Welcome to Barbados.
So the Skycap sorted us a cab and we were strolling into Treasure Beach Hotel half an hour later. We hadn't even put our bags down before Tizer tore through reception, past the bar and straight into the arms of her Grammy & Grandad. All terribly touching. Me? I got no further than the bar, I'm afraid; Michael the barman had seen me coming and had already set a rum punch up for me. Well, it would have been churlish to refuse, wouldn't it? We were on holiday, after all.
A great flight, and one we didn't really expect to be on for obvious reasons. It also clearly showed the benefits of a LHR plane on an LGW route - V-Port is still the dog's dangly bits (when it works), and having a proper bar to sit and chat at makes the flight feel more like 4 hours, rather than 8 and a half. Very pleasant, easy-going, but efficient crew who managed to make everything look effortless. Shame the same couldn't quite be said about the returning crew, but we'll have save that for another trip report...
Last edited by mdvipond on 16 May 2010, 21:31, edited 1 time in total.
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.I always think fondly of that nice chap Graig (on the SYD trip) when you recount your social interactions at the bar 
- Quality, just quality, and as good a reminder as you will ever need, to explain why when flying to Vegas we decided to route via LAX/SFO.
