Mingo.Life

Day 3.

Is there anything on this planet more blissful than a solid, uninterrupted lie-in? I’m talking about that borderline spiritual experience where the bed feels less like furniture and more like a personal cloud, engineered to cradle you into oblivion. After weeks of sleep deprivation, night shifts, and nighttime nappy changes, frankly, getting out of bed today felt like an act of betrayal.

The morning was delightfully slow, a bit of time on the balcony—soaking up some vitamin D, because apparently that’s good for you—before wandering down to the poolside restaurant for another delicious a la carte lunch.

Thank heavens we went all-inclusive. We decided to be nerds and figure out how much our frivolous food choices would have been otherwise. The Barceló Corralejo Bay Hotel has options for all-inclusive, half board and breakfast only, hence the menu having pricing. Turns out our brunch would have been about €70 including; Grilled Steak (Em), Iberian Ham Toast (shared), Lasagne (Me), Big Caesar Salad (shared) and our drinks were Irish Coffee (Me), 2 Coca Colas (each), a Strawberry Daiquiri (Em), and a Tequila Sunrise (Me). Needless to say, we really enjoyed our relaxed outside lunch in the sunshine.

Opting for a little adventure, we identified a Mercadona supermarket on the map about half an hour’s walk away, just to the South of Corralejo but still within the town itself technically. We found a couple of those little electric scooters nearby. You know, the ones you can find in most major cities and now, it seems, are scattered across the Canary Islands. They’re basically glorified hairdryers on wheels—you scan a QR code, plug your details into an app, and off you go, zipping around like an overgrown child on a sugar rush. We’ve previously whizzed around on them in Marro Jable and had fun, so we thought “What’s the worst that can happen?”. Well, dear reader, allow me to enlighten you.

I wouldn’t exactly say we were hurtling along too fast. More of a leisurely pootle, but just fast enough to feel the breeze on your face. I led the way, stopping every so often to consult the map, while Emma followed dutifully behind, single file. It was one of those perfect, chilled-out, sun-drenched afternoons, the kind where everything feels idyllic, and you’re convinced nothing could go wrong. That was, of course, until I heard it…

An almighty crash, the shriek of a scooter’s buzzer going into meltdown, and a sound that can only be described as someone yelling in “I’ve just been hit by a small car” levels of pain. I didn’t even need to turn around to know what had happened. Emma, bless her, had reached for her hat—about to be stolen by the breeze—and in doing so, threw herself and the scooter straight into the ground, left side first.

So, the problem wasn’t the fall; it was the fact she now wasn’t getting up. I sprinted over, and for once, unlike me, I was clueless and found her tangled up with the scooter, looking like she’d just lost a fight with it. Grazes everywhere, arm and knee looking worse for wear. The scooter got unceremoniously dumped to the side as I tried to assess whether or not we were about to spend the rest of our time abroad in a Spanish hospital. After all the issues with RyanAir on Day One, we really could have done without this.

It was then that something very convenient happened. Just like that scene in Game of Thrones where a healing monk appears suddenly in the middle of nowhere from “behind that rock” (terrible writing, btw), a radiologist nurse appeared! She spoke English too. She helped me check Emma over, and we assessed that her arm isn’t majorly broken, but there could be some damage to the muscles or a fracture further up. Either way, it wasn’t looking good, and Emma was in buckets of pain and couldn’t bear any weight on the arm.

Emma, in true invincible mother-of-two fashion, stood up—albeit wincing —and agreed to embark on a mission to find bandages and painkillers. We thanked our wild radiologist saviour and ditched the scooters properly en route to Mercadona, picking up water and paracetamol there. Emma’s arm would continue to plague her for the rest of the trip and beyond, eventually winding up in a sling.

Although it was an awful accident…
I had to lend her a hand.
It almost cost her an arm (but not a leg).
On the bright side, Emma can still clap—just very, very quietly.

I shouldn’t laugh at her apparent misfortune, but hey. We both did, eventually. So called ‘gallows humour’ is something I’ve become very acclimatized to through my career. If you’ve ever worked for the NHS, Police, Army, or other such relatively extreme environments, then you’ll have come across this somewhat unhealthy coping mechanism. It really did ruin her holiday, though – of course this happened, why wouldn’t it? As philosopher Viktor Frankl writes in his Auschwitz memoir, “Man’s Search for Meaning”, Humour, more than anything else in the human make-up, can afford an aloofness and an ability to rise above any situation, even if only for a few seconds.

In the end, we picked up some lovely affordable wines and gifts at Mercadona (it’s amazing what a sensible tax rate can do) as well as some saffron! Then, I hailed us a cab for €8 the length of town back to the hotel. I liked how the taxi’s here have little lights on their roof indicating if they are available or not. Handy. I also managed to pick up that bottle of Liquor 43 I spoke about on Day Two. Happy Steve has a happy drinks cabinet now.

Finally, it was epic beach time.

We grabbed our beach bags, an ice cream each from Hiperdino, and then a taxi ride down to Grandes Playes. This is part of a National Park here in Fuerteventura and stretches for an impressive 4km before linking in with other sandy beaches, all the way down to the small town the airport sits in. The whole national park can be seen from space!

I really can’t describe how beautiful it was here. We walked for what felt like a long time until our poor ankles started to begrudge the fine sand beneath our bare feet. As we walked, there were fewer and fewer people around. You look to the left, and there is nothing but endless blue sea on one side and a desert scene straight out of Lawrence of Arabia on the other. To top it off, the sun was setting behind these dramatic, shadowy mountains. It was like Mother Nature was putting on a show.

We stayed quite a while and lounged in a small spot atop a little dune, taking in the view and the fresh air. I went for a refreshing dip in the pleasant, temperate water and then Em and I shared a bottle of Cava and these weird snacks we found called Bombitos which were corn snacks that tasted like butter, and were so addictive. After an hour or two just enjoying existing together, we took a slow walk back along the shoreline. I drew our names in the sand and vastly underestimated the effort involved. We then found a little bubbling spring type feature beneath a rock, and it was surrounded by absolutely tiny hermit crabs. Truly nature’s most adorable little army. All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

I flagged down a taxi with ease and got us back in time for dinner. Food at the hotel was good, but not a patch on last night. I was very impressed with the drinks service at the Barceló though, as I enjoyed ordering a tropica and then a bottle of wine to the table. The wine came in one of those stands with ice in it and everything. Fancy!

Music Square

We ventured into Corralejo town for the evening, stopping off to enjoy a delicious Smooy frozen yoghurt with Belgian chocolate and Biscoff topping. After that essential pit stop, we wandered over to the famous Music Square, which is, quite frankly, brilliant. Imagine half a dozen bars with outdoor seating, all gathered around a bandstand where live music plays. It’s genius, really—like someone finally cracked the code to “How to Keep People in One Spot All Night.”

I said to Emma that I intended to allow the person at the front of a bar I liked the look of to entice me in. They are very keen on doing that in this part of the world.. Fate had a sense of humour because who should be standing there but a stunning, long-legged, raven-haired Spanish woman. Sorry about that, Emma. We settled down and ordered cocktails, watching the last few tunes of a jazz band set. Honestly, there’s no better way to soak in the evening than with a drink in hand, scanning the square, and taking in the delightful chaos of music, chatter, and drinking opportunities. Once the band had finished, the bars struck up a competing chorus of Reggaeton tunes whilst a Chinese lady tried to sell me a light up Pikachu hat because I unfortunately smiled in her general direction.

After some light people-watching—I was absolutely baffled by the young couple who left behind a full Gin & Tonic, like they had something better to do with their lives—we decided to give the local nightclub circuit another go. Spoiler alert: it was as lively as a Tuesday afternoon at the post office. The clubs were mostly empty. I sincerely hope it’s not always like this because unless they’re keeping the lights on with thoughts and prayers and a Spotify playlist, I can’t see these places lasting long.

It was a bit of a letdown, to be honest. All I wanted after everything we’d been through this year was to dance to some of our favourite summer tracks—Danza Kuduro, I’m Good (Blue), Pedro—and a whole playlist of Latin reggaeton tunes that would actually make sense on a Spanish island. Call me crazy, but I kind of expected Spanish music. But no, apparently, the universal sound of the night was British pop. Alas. If I’d wanted to hear Robin Thicke’s disgustingly inappropriate song about blurred lines of consent with women (which I don’t, ever), I could’ve stayed at home or visited my local ‘Popworld’.

On our leisurely walk back, we saw a group of what appeared to be Spanish bartenders that had finished their shift and half closed their beachfront bar. They had an enormous speaker blasting Latin reggaeton baile tunes, and they were singing and dancing on the sand together under the night sky. The whole scene was extremely warming, and I wanted to just be those people in that moment – carefree and loving life. I love ‘foreign’ culture, it’s so much more beautiful than the pot-bellied semi-racist British atmosphere, where sitting around on cheap rattan furniture watching a football match with a stale pint is peak life for some. Anyway, enough of the cynical old me.

This story has a happy ending, dear reader. Ultimately, we had an amazing time on some beautiful beaches and at some incredible restaurants, but at night, we couldn’t find what we wanted in Corralejo. A fortnight later, when we returned home to the South West, we managed to secure a very rare night out together – to a reggaeton club night no less. I got talking to the DJ and told him this story. He not only played Danza Kuduro for us once but remixed it and played it twice and then shared a drink with us as we owned the dance floor. At that moment, I couldn’t have been happier as I let the thumping bass and the terrible dancing wash away my troubles.

Subscribe and follow us for the next blog post, as we were due to fly home tomorrow, and it seemed my body would go on to harbour a little viral passenger on the return trip. Not for the faint hearted.