Mingo.Life

Welcome to the travel diary of a pair of sun-chasing disaster magnets, gallivanting around collecting horrendous viral infections, unexplainable mishaps, and bloodied hotel towels. If there’s bad luck to be had, be it a rogue banana peel or a tropical flu within a mile radius, it’ll find them.

They’re the sort of couple who head to paradise for sun, sea, and cocktails, but end up with third-degree sunburn, a dodgy prawn-induced ‘all-inclusive’ stomach bug, and a trip to A&E after one of them tries to ‘recreate the Baywatch run’ and faceplants into a parasol. Basically, if there’s a new way to contract something tropical and painful, they’ll find it—and subsequently receive a pity upgrade to priority boarding on the return flight… in a wheelchair (this last part actually happened). Honestly, if you put them on the sunniest island in the world, they’d find the one cloud—and probably get struck by lightning while simply existing under it.

So, yes, we’ve been away for a few days. We’ve also both been to the hospital—again. Those two things are connected. Since we are cursed and can’t “do things normally”, I thought I’d share the story of one heck of an eventful week in our lives.

I’m going to hereby share our adventure to Corralejo, Fuerteventura – and back. Similar to how my friend Joe is currently documenting his idyllic journey through South East Asia on his travel blog. I highly recommend giving it a read. He’s just hit Bali, and, with any luck, maybe our journals will align one day unless he finally runs out of money. Though mine will be much shorter—he’s on day 100+, while I’m just trying to make it through day 7 without needing another white hospital wristband with my name on it. By the end of this mini-series, you’ll discover why Emma’s arm is in a sling, and why I’m writing this after a second trip to Accident & Emergency, pockets stuffed with anti-sickness meds and painkillers.

Day 1.

The night before our flight, I decided to channel my inner romantic (yes, it happens occasionally) and surprised Emma with a dinner reservation—Italian, because carbs are basically therapy—and a stay at a hotel in the Midlands filled with fond memories for us to revisit. The idea was to relax, reconnect, and maybe avoid the mistake of running life at 100mph right up until we step on the plane, which, based on past experience, is a foolproof way to guarantee a terrible time. Also, we desperately needed sleep—like, really, REALLY needed it. I changed us to a late flight just so we could sleep a little longer. Fellow parents of toddlers will understand.

Huge thanks, by the way, to Emma’s parents, who deserve a medal for looking after our two little chaos-makers for a few days. They did a stellar job, and we’ll be forever in their debt.

So, after stopping off and wishing our adorable niece a happy 1st birthday, we piled into our trusty old 2009 Vauxhall Astra and hit the road, hoping this time things would start on a calmer note.

We spoke at length over dinner and into the evening, quickly deducing that we are both very much not okay lately, but we took solace in each other’s company and had four days of “sunshine therapy” coming up. The pressure will lift. There are still people in our lives deriding us for taking a break – sometimes it feels like there’s this unspoken rule that we’re not supposed to have nice things, and when we do, it’s somehow frowned upon. I found myself venting at the situation until Emma gently placed a hand on mine and reminded me that Steve, you can’t change other people, but you can change your reaction to them. You just have to look after yourself. Only then can I go ahead and be the best Dad, Husband, and all the other things. It’s like they say in that little safety briefing before the plane takes off – you should put on your own oxygen mask before helping others.

We agreed that this trip isn’t just about escaping—it’s about stopping, reflecting, and finally having the space to figure out why this constant cycle of stress keeps following us. There has to be another way, but we’ve never had the time or space to consider it… until now. By the end of dinner, I was feeling pretty good about the next few days.

Then, the bottom fell out of Emma’s suitcase.

Realizing that her clothes spewing across baggage claim was… Less than ideal, it was a mad rush the morning of our flight to find a new suitcase. We ended up finding one at a Home Bargains. There was an agonizingly long wait at the checkout while a man was trying to buy a 4-foot robotic Santa that wouldn’t scan. I could almost feel my watch ticking closer to the “Go To Gate” time the longer he argued with the cashier. Bellend. We eventually made it to Birmingham airport. Bags dropped, and fast-track security up to departures. Smooth.

It was in the line to board the plane that I noticed something off with our boarding passes on the RyanAir app. Despite paying to select seats, they’d just suddenly changed us to sit entirely apart. Emma at the front and me at the back.
This is NOT okay, RyanAir.
Then came the cherry on top: the flight was delayed by an hour. No explanation, of course. When we finally got to board, I was informed they’d downsized to a smaller aircraft. Why? Who knows, they certainly weren’t telling us. Perhaps money was involved, unsurprisingly. I calmly explained to every staff member who would listen (which is surprisingly few) that this was a serious issue—Emma is registered disabled and sitting her on her own for the flight was absolutely not an option and will result in a medical problem. The response? “Other people have paid for their seats.” Right, because I didn’t? I guess I’d only paid for the privilege of sitting next to my wife in specific seats that I’d exchanged money to select, but apparently, that doesn’t count.

Sh*t excuse.

Now, I didn’t entirely lose my cool because it’s not the crew’s fault. But RyanAir as a company? They can take their downsized aircraft and fly it straight up their own arse. Eventually, a kind passenger offered to switch seats with me, as Emma was distraught. My faith in humanity was temporarily restored by this good Samaritan, but RyanAir? Not so much. Shame on your company.

In the end, they grudgingly refunded the seat selection fee but then had the audacity to criticize us for not booking “special assistance” for mental health reasons. As if that somehow absolves them of responsibility. Honestly, it’s a shocking way to treat customers and a truly disgraceful way to run a business.
Anyway…

Where is Corralejo?
Corralejo is a small town at the Northern end of Fuerteventura, which is one of the Canary Islands situated a little to the West of Morocco, Africa, and just below Lanzarote. We’ve been to Fuerteventura a couple of times before, drawn back by it’s beautiful sandy beaches, crystal clear waters, sunshine, and average temperatures sitting in the high 20’s. Whilst we normally head South to Jandia and Morro Jable, this time, I’d take us North to explore what Corralejo has to offer.

The flight took an hour longer than it should have, for no reason whatsoever, but we finally landed after dark in Fuerteventura. Words can’t describe, after that ordeal, the good feeling of walking into baggage claim and seeing your suitcase directly in front of you waiting. Spanish airports definitely have one up on the British, but it’s a low bar to be honest. We hopped onto the coach I’d booked to take us up through Parque Natural de Corralejo to the hotel (unfortunately it was too dark to see what I’d hoped would have been a spectacular first impression).

So, confession – I haven’t actually told Emma what hotel we’re staying at. I was pleased with my choice and I wanted it to be a nice surprise. We made the coach journey fun by Emma guessing if each one we pulled up outside of was our hotel. When we eventually arrived, I was tempted to sit for a few moments to throw her off, but this Spanish coach driver wasn’t hanging around, so off we got.

BARCELÓ CORRALEJO BAY – Adults Only Hotel. I’d booked us a deluxe room, and we got lucky with a pool view, too. The big surprise was the actual HOT TUB in the bedroom! There was also a double vanity (most bathrooms don’t have those!) and a bed that was basically two singles pushed together to make one giant super bed which meant we could both spread out like a starfish with plenty of room.

After unpacking, we had two amazing Mai Thai’s made for us at the bar and then a nice touch was a plate of cold salads set aside for us as, thanks to RyanAir, we’d arrived after the buffet had closed. I was exhausted after what felt like an unreasonably long day. We ordered a bottle of white wine and 2 glasses for the room and had a go in the in-room hot tub before turning into bed just before midnight. I played goldilocks with the air conditioning until I found the perfect setting, then slept like a log until sunrise, ready for a great day ahead.

If you’ve made it this far, you’re either A) actually finding my ramblings amusing, or B) collecting evidence for some future court case, hearing, mental health review, or bizarre social experiment. Either way, you might as well make your life easier and pop your email in the subscribe box—somewhere around the bottom or side of the page, depending on whether I’ve messed up the layout again. This way, our latest tales of misadventure will land directly in your inbox, and I promise we’ll email you less than that wine subscription you regret signing up for. Sometimes, Emma does recipes, too. So that’s nice. If you’re already a subscriber, thank you for coming on this journey with us – we love you!

And if you’re feeling particularly charitable, or just overwhelmed with sympathy for Emma (because let’s face it, she’s got two screaming kids and me to put up with), you can always click the “Buy Me a Coffee” link (at the bottom, I think?). It gives Emma a much-needed takeaway Latte—she deserves it for putting up with this circus.

Thanks for reading, and do come back for Day 2. It’s a nice one, I promise.