SOARING REAL LIFE
Linda Trestrail, 69, from Plymouth, sought out a sunny haven, but was met with trouble in paradise...
Stuffing clothes into my suitcase, I was absolutely buzzing with excitement.
From tankinis to flip-flops, I’d splurged on new clothes to take on holiday.
Popping into town with my best friend Wendy, 71, in September last year, we only meant to go to the card shop – but we somehow found ourselves wandering into the travel agents on a whim instead.
‘You two are in your golden years,’ said Wendy’s son Danny, 39. ‘You need a girl’s holiday!’
So, that’s exactly what we were looking for.
‘We want to go on holiday,’ I told the travel agent.
‘Somewhere nice but not with any old fogeys! We’re not going to be sat around the pool with our knitting needles.’
Laughing, the travel agent thought we were go-getters.
‘How about Mallorca?’ the travel agent suggested.
Sunshine, sandy beaches and a flat terrain – it was perfect for me and Wendy as we could use our wheelchairs for long distances.
Plus, my brother Richard, 70, lived out there, too. I’d been to Mallorca before and loved it. Booking the holiday for 26 September, we opted for an all-inclusive Jet2Holidays package, so we didn’t have to worry about anything.
And arriving at Bristol Airport at 5am, two hours before our flight, travel assistance took us in wheelchairs to the check-in desk and through security.
We didn’t even get to shop in duty-free
We had plenty of time – but then everything suddenly seemed to changed.
‘We need to get you to the gate now,’ the staff said.
Suddenly, the men pushing our wheelchairs started running
through the airport, like Wacky Races.
We didn’t even get to hunt for bargains in duty-free – it zoomed straight past us.
Having our tickets hastily checked on the shuttle bus and before boarding, me and Wendy flopped down into our seats on the plane.
‘Aren’t we meant to be at the front?’ I asked Wendy. ‘We need more leg room.’
‘Don’t say anything,’ Wendy sighed. ‘We’re sat down now.’ So, I shut up and put up. Sipping on coffee during the flight, we had a good natter about our holiday plans.
Looking out the window towards the end of the flight, we were flying over land.
Iswear we always land by the coast in Mallorca, I frowned. Then the captain’s voice boomed out of the speakers.
‘We’ll be landing in the next 10 minutes,’ the captain announced cheerily. ‘Welcome to Menorca.’ I froze.
‘Wendy, he just said Menorca,’ I said, in complete shock. ‘Not Mallorca.’
‘Don’
