Corralejo Diaries: Day Four

It was our final day in Fuerteventura, for now, but the story wasn’t over just yet. We’d packed our bags, grabbed some souvenirs, and set our sights on the horizon. The sun was out in full force today, and as I sipped my morning coffee, I caught a glimpse of a cheeky little sparrow scrounging for crumbs beneath a breakfast table on the terrace. It was a moment of reflection, reminding me that sometimes the best memories come from the simplest things.

Emma might only have one functional arm left, and I might have a broken body and a frazzled mind, but we always find the positives. In our short time here in Corralejo, we’ve had some great experiences.
– We found the Popcorn Rocks.
– I swam in the sea, which was so beautifully warm. I saw some interesting fish.
– That beautiful, never-ending beach where we watched the sun set behind the mountains.
– That meal at Land of Freedom restaurant, in that strange setting, on that faraway island.
– A welcoming local culture, contrary to the rubbish you read in the news.
– A whole spectrum of interesting cocktails.
– Just the pure, uninterrupted time walking around together in the sunshine and talking.

It’s a view I will never get tired of. And it proves you don’t need to fly for 9 hours to find a picture postcard, perfect beach.

I know we could do that last one anywhere, but here I am thousands of miles away from being called about something kicking off at work, away from dirty nappies, hourly meltdowns and screaming fits, from mortgage advisors and building regulations, from broken kitchen appliances and unexpected bills. Soon, there will be all of these things and more that will get in between Emma and I once again. Right now, though, I’m grateful that I’ll have memories of moonlit walks in the warm sea air to carry me through the stressful times ahead. Bliss.

Today, I let Emma sleep in. She needed it. She was exhausted after yesterday’s accident and then us deciding to take a lovely hike on the beaches and dunes. I was up at nine, courtesy of the sun streaming through the curtains, so I made my way solo to the breakfast buffet. For reasons beyond me, eating alone seemed to make me a subject of local fascination. But I helped myself to more of that glorious fresh honey, plus the usual coffee and a plate of sausage and beans.

I feel this is an optimum time, on the subject of food, to share a photo of these delicious ham croquettes that we had every day at the poolside a la carte. Delicious!

Settling onto the patio in shorts and a t-shirt, I basked in the warmth. Meanwhile, my cameras back home had pinged my phone, triggered by storms, and the wind toppling bins down the street like an impromptu trash carnival. I leaned back, feeling the sun on my skin, quietly thankful to be here and not in the middle of that misery.

Being a little proactive, my next mission was to sort out Emma’s arm and figure out how she’d survive the impending trip home—where, needless to say, an immediate hospital visit and x-ray awaited her. I had a quick stroll through Corralejo, hoping to find a triangular bandage, but no luck. So, I went to hotel management. The manager was lovely but handed me what could only be described as a tiny, flimsy kitchen serviette. I’m not sure if my Spanish had failed me or if this was the extent of their first aid facilities. I tried folding it, then unfolding it, before finally shoving it in my pocket, thoroughly defeated. Luckily, we were pointed toward the lifeguard, who managed to bandage Emma’s arm properly, holding it secure. We strolled back to the room and spotted a tiny gecko darting across our path.

Look at this little fella! He was about the size of a coin and very speedy.

We packed up our suitcases, and, according to the hotel scales, we’re clocking in at 1.4 kg and 5.1 kg over Ryanair’s generous 20 kg allowance per person. Fortunately, when it came to the airport, the scales showed something completely different, and the attendant couldn’t have cared less. Then it was time for yet another à la carte lunch. By now, it’s fair to assume that most of this adventure has been spent eating our way through every menu in sight, and honestly, you wouldn’t be wrong. We shared a mushroom and ham pizza, some crispy ham croquettes, a massive salad, and rounded it off with another round of Mai Tais— hydration is key you know.

Then, it was a trip across the hot, sun-drenched pool area to the Barceló Corralejo Bay Spa. It turns out anyone can use this, external guests just need to pay a slightly higher charge but it’s pretty affordable, and if I was a resident in the area I’d probably be in there once a week myself. Sadly, due to Emma’s injury, they had to cancel the massages we’d prebooked. The masseuse explained to us in half-English, half-Spanish (good thing I’ve kept up my 1227 day Duolingo streak then), that it just wouldn’t be medically safe. They can’t risk working on her back and pushing on a nerve or making something irreparably worse, I get that. I vowed that back home, I’d book Emma into the sports injury rehabilitation clinic I go to – their massages are less relaxing and more muscle crunching, but they work.

Emma, seen here before the accident with a fully functional left arm.

Emma was very upset to miss out on her massage, but the spa manager was so nice and gave us free access to the hydrotherapy circuit. Awesome! We spent just under 2 hours there trying everything out, there was; a shower labyrinth*, a hot pool, a bubble pool with some powerful jets, a sauna, a steam room, an outdoor relaxation area and a hydrotherapy pool with jets and showers at places within it.
*A shower labyrinth, as it transpires, is not a Greek myth perpetuated by a Cyclops in a Shower Cap. It is a small winding circuit of a dozen or more different shower types. I never knew what a Scottish shower was until now. It seems the Scots only ever wash their feet. Suspicious. I chickened out of the one where they just dumped an actual bucket of cold water on your head from above. I love the ones where it just pummeled my aching back with high-pressure water.

After that, we hit the lobby bar for expertly crafted mojitos. They were delicious—exactly the kind of drink one needs after a tough day at the spa. Right on schedule, our pre-booked coach arrived, surprisingly comfortable, and took us to the airport. The ride, bittersweet as it was, turned out to be a treat, finally offering the views that Ryanair had so thoughtfully deprived us of on Day One.

A rushed photo taken on the Coach as we passed the red mountains. I really enjoyed this drive.

The coach wound through the national park, giving us stunning glimpses of Lobos Island across the water, sweeping sand dunes either side of us, ocean views, and tucked-away coves where surfers caught waves. It was a pretty spectacular way to say goodbye.

I have to give an honourable mention here to the hard-working staff at Fuerteventura Airport. With Emma’s arm in absolute agony, I was genuinely dreading the thought of navigating the crowded airport with all our bags. Every time she so much as brushed her arm, she’d cry out in pain, and I had visions of her getting jostled around by the crowd and ending up in tears. Not to mention (and she’ll hate me for adding this), she was walking with a bit of a limp from the bruises and scrapes up one leg. That e-scooter really left its mark.

So, for the first time ever, I swallowed my pride and requested special assistance. If anyone could make this a smoother process, I was open to suggestions.

I was suitably impressed. Emma was escorted through the whole process in a wheelchair. A lovely Spanish woman named Yanita saw us through the second half of the process and directly onto the plane. I had explained what happened to Emma, and to keep her away from any potential injury, they boarded her first!

At this point, a particularly snooty looking man in a suit decided he was far too important to wait in line, attempting to power-walk past the wheelchairs at the front. He ditched the designated path across the tarmac, hunched over in grim determination, suitcase dragging like a reluctant pet, fixated on overtaking anyone who dared board before him. His reward? A barrage of angry Spanish as Yanita in no uncertain terms told him to get back in line where he belonged. Cheeky bastard.

A photo of somewhere I completely forget from above on our night flight back. There’s a roundabout thingy so it might even have been the U.K. We flew over Portugal, a bit of France, and then across the channel back into England.

The flight home was… unpleasant, to put it kindly. The entire cabin had a faint aroma of farts, and to add to the joy, the front toilet was out of order. One unfortunate soul decided to occupy one of the two remaining coffin-sized loos for an eternity, and I have a sneaking suspicion this might be where the violent illness (currently staging a hostile takeover of my immune system) originated. In about 24 hours, I’d be in quite a state, but I’ll spare you the details.

Arriving back in the cold and miserable United Kingdom just after midnight was about as fun as wisdom tooth surgery. At least I managed a brief nap on the plane. Of course, it was raining. We collected our suitcases—an ordeal that took roughly three times longer than it should have – because, well, it’s Britain. Then we waited an entire hour for a bus to the car park. A journey that is advertised to take 3 minutes, but you’re not allowed to walk it. Why? Why is everything here such a shambles?

By the time we finally rolled into Emma’s parents’ house around 3 a.m., we were utterly spent—dead to the world, ready to crash and see our happy little children in the morning.

What a day. What a week.

Thank you for reading.