Julie Jay: We're in Spain - and marvelling at how cheap the crisps are

Pic: iStock

For the last 18 months, Fred has continually reminded me we have yet to go on our honeymoon.

"There’s no honeymoon when you have a child," I always reply, giving off a distinctly Mother Superior energy.

Much like I wore Fred down initially and tricked him into our relationship, so too has Fred worn me down and convinced me to book a holiday in the sun, and so here we are, in Spain, sitting on blue sun loungers, marvelling at how cheap the crisps are.

Having booked the holiday I should probably have had some idea where we were going, but when we landed at the airport in Spain I was as surprised as Fred to find out we were headed for Salou. 'Who knew?'  said I, and Ted shot me a look that suggested he didn’t fully believe I had the situation under control.

Throughout our journey, Ted had been brilliant and remained decidedly pleasant, even when Mammy messed up on the airport shuttle.

We had been wandering around Terminal 1 in Barcelona just long enough for Fred to gently suggest some help from Duo Lingo to assist us in locating our tour bus. I took this suggestion as nothing less than a personal slight. I insisted on following my intuition, telling me to head right, where we bumped into another Irish family trying to navigate their way to Salou. 

While their Mammy felt we should keep going straight ahead, something in my gut (maybe it was God) told me to jump on a shuttle bus and head for the other Terminal. "We have to go back and tell the other family they’re going the wrong way," said Fred, because of course in an equitable world, no family gets left behind.

"There’s no time, Fred," I replied as the bus doors closed and we made our way across the airport. 

That poor woman is after going completely wrong, I thought to myself, sympathetic to her lack of navigation skills but simultaneously grateful my sense of direction was much more on point.

LIKE COLUMBUS

My feeling of superiority was short-lived, however, when we finally found our tour bus operator who informed us we had gone the wrong direction and should have followed mammy number one. Much like Christopher Columbus insisting that the Americas were, in fact, India, and everyone else - including the people who lived in the West Indies - were entirely incorrect, I doubled down on the fact that I had made a complete hames of the situation and informed Fred it was actually a better way to get to where we wanted to be.

"It’s great now that we got to see both terminals," I announced to Fred as we trundled onto our bus, bleary-eyed and world-weary.

When we finally landed at our hotel in the wee hours we only threatened to end our marriage twice while negotiating the digital door key. Because I am sadomasochistic, I immediately unpack our clothes, lining up our panic-bought items, including some matching Spider-Man togs for Fred and Ted.

On day one of our holiday, Fred nearly skipped breakfast until I reminded him it was our national duty to raid the buffet for lunch as Irish people.

"Bring my tote bag and grab as many rolls as you can," I told him, despite his protestations.

After breakfast, we hit the pool where, because we all purchase fashion from the same sweatshop, we are met with a scatter of Scottish children also dressed in identical Spider-Man swimwear. "You could easily bring home the wrong child," Fred notes, and I nod while making a mental commitment to double-check we don’t accidentally steal a child who speaks like Lewis Capaldi.

MEN WITH FORKS

So far the holiday has mostly consisted of reapplying suncream, making sure armbands are being worn in the pool and constant reminders that toys are there to be shared - and that’s just Fred. Ted also needs a bit of minding.

Even though it’s not that hot for Spain in May, I am squirting both buachaillí with Factor 50 on the hour, every hour, with the same gusto a climate change protester might throw tomato soup at a modern art exhibition.

What’s nice about holidays is it’s a chance to chat with your partner on the brief intervals between chaperoning Ted in the kids' pools. Yesterday the major debate was whether or not you can eat ice cream with a fork, Fred’s utensil of choice when digging into a tub of gelato.

"People eat ice cream with forks all over the world," Fred maintained as Ted followed suit, his fork utterly futile in its attempt to conquer a glass of chocolate milk. As I watch Fred, I am suddenly reminded of Noel Gallagher’s description of his brother Liam as a ‘man with a fork in a world of soup.’ Noel, if you’re reading this, maybe we were both wrong, and spoons are for Philistines.

Bar fork-gate, Ted’s first holiday has been a success so far. As a parent, of course, it is like no other holiday I’ve ever had - the book I optimistically brought will probably never get read and the days of afternoon siestas are over, but we’ve got something better now. A small Spider-Man, eating his second ice cream of the day, wearing his armbands in bed because you can never be too careful. 

Just when I thought I couldn’t love Ted more, this morning, he handed me a breakfast roll to stash in my bag for later because he too has answered Ireland’s call. What a patriot.