Dave’s Odyssey #1

In May 2008, I went travelling on my own for the first time and was out of England for a month. Along the way I took in Singapore, New Zealand, Australia and Thailand before coming home. I kept a journal of my time on the road, so here’s a day by day account of my trials and tribulations that has the undeserved title of Dave’s Odyssey. 

Day 1 – London – Singapore

It had been a week without nerves, but all too soon the false hope that this travel thing would be easy suddenly reared its ugly head. The Sunday before the tour of Heathrow I’d found solace in, first of all, the snooker before heading for the hotel bar. The snooker didn’t improve that night and nor did my nerves.

After an uneven night’s sleep it was time to face the holiday. The epic build-up was finally over. My taxi to the airport was due at 8.30a.m. but I opted to get up at 7.00. It took me ten minutes to get ready. The backpack was already there and waiting. I spent the next hour waiting for the clock to tick by – my thoughts were only interrupted by the incessant cleaners rapping on nearby doors and calling, “Housekeeping.” Good thing I set my alarm for 7.00!

There was no drama booking out or in my taxi showing up to take me to Heathrow. The path to Singapore was bound to be littered with the odd mishap i.e. Barnsley boy goes travelling for the first time, he’s a bag of nerves and blah-de-blah; something had to give and in this regard I didn’t let myself down. I just wish I could have at least got to the departures lounge before something went wrong.

Surprisingly, my passport and ticket were fine; it was me that was the problem. Having a backpack you can carry in a multitude ways led me to trying out the extendable handle and, dare I say, I felt pretty smug wheeling the old luggage along. My last holiday in Tenerife had nearly killed me with the excess weight I had to carry. When the moment came for the old backpack to be weighed I couldn’t put the handle back in place! The Heathrow chap didn’t say a word though I suspect he stifled a snigger or two; I was too flustered to notice. Eventually I found pressing a button had the desired effect I was hoping for. I was wondering what that was for.

The rest of Heathrow was a breeze. I revelled in the latest football scores in the paper heading for my allotted gate. I’d noticed signs up for some gates saying to allow 15 minutes to get there. How any gate could be that far away puzzled me. However, after walking the seemingly 3,000 miles to my plane I could understand and appreciate what had, at first, seemed a ludicrous sign.

There had to be one more twist before boarding. I handed over my passport and ticket and the rather amused Heathrow woman, exclaimed, “You’re a Barnsley boy, eh?”

There seems to be some stigma attached to being from Barnsley. No one ever fails to react when you reveal where you’re from. Admittedly, most just laugh. Now, this woman had really put the pressure on here. I pride myself on being able to muster a witty retort when needed and with a large queue behind me, the stage was set to conjure up something special. I didn’t. All I could force was an apologetic, “I’m afraid so.”

The Heathrow woman then informed me she was from Harrogate. Not only that but she seemed proud as well. I was just eyeing up the exit behind her, wondering when – hell, make that if – I’d ever be allowed onto the plane. Eventually, our mutual Yorkshire roots enabled me to stem the tide and I found my way on board.

Things started to look up on the plane and that wasn’t intended as some bad pun. No, I ended up with an aisle seat. Very convenient for a quick dash to the toilet but the downside being you’re right in the firing of the air stewardesses. My last holiday in Tenerife resulted in one air stewardess assaulting me with an ice cube. I hadn’t said anything nor given any look to even prompt such a reaction but it didn’t stop her. If I had I imagine it would have been far worse.

The plane was delayed nearly an hour taking off. I can only assume it was the 20,000 strong procession amassed on the runway in my honour. Once airborne, I had the joys of negotiating a twelve-hour shift and trying to keep both mind and limbs intact.

I passed the first six hours reading Catch-22. A book about fighter pilots crashing a lot was probably not the best choice but it passed the time. There were several interruptions while the busybodies dished out first pretzels, an assortment of drinks, then, finally, some food.

There have been one or two anecdotes about things going wrong and here’s another. The menu comprised of two dishes so delicious I don’t recall what they were. I can narrow it down enough to reveal one was lamb and the other chicken, but what else was including I’ll never know. Now, as the majority of people began feasting, myself and the guy next to me were informed they’d run out of lamb so it would have to be the chicken dish for us. We then heard they’d run out of that too. It seemed clear someone had a vendetta against us both.

When our meal arrived I wasn’t overly clear what the hell it was. There were what looked like potatoes then some lumps buried under a green/yellow sauce. Doesn’t sound that appetising, does it? I decided to give the stuff a try and it wasn’t bad, not even a trace of poison.

After six hours of reading it was becoming difficult to continue not just because it was now dark outside but one of the stewardesses decided to turn all the lights off. Thankfully, Quantas had graced each of us with some headphones and the best entertainment system I’ve ever seen on a plane.

I was going to brave a film or two but chose some comedy instead in the shape of Family Guy and Mr Bean. From our personal screens we were also able to trace the whereabouts of our plane on the world map. Suffice to say we weren’t getting anywhere fast. It was at this point that I settled for a film – There Will Be Blood. At two and half-hours it was the perfect tonic to the sheer boredom of the flight.

Not long after my viewing was over Quantas fed us again. This time it was breakfast. I hadn’t slept since Sunday night so all of a sudden I was having breakfast twice without any rest in between. The Quantas version of a cereal breakfast was some Muesli – with barely enough milk to drown a fly never mind the cereal – tea/coffee, orange juice, a bowl of sliced fruit, yoghurt and some bread. I’d have been happy with a slice of toast but can’t complain too much.

With breakfast out of the way it was time for the hot towels. I didn’t make the same mistake as Adam Sandler in “The Wedding Singer” when handed mine. I even went to the trouble of folding the damn thing for collection and when the steward showed up he took it from a distance with the aid of some tongs. I must say I was rather offended.

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