Better late than never, right? I must wholeheartedly apologise for the radio silence on the blogging front. By the time our plane wheels kissed the tarmac on Saturday morning, my brain was running on absolute fumes, and writing a coherent sentence was well out of the question.
Saturday daytime swiftly dissolved into a glorious, horizontal haze of unapologetic laziness. So, here I am, slipping into your feeds on a Sunday evening to regale you with the final, chaotic chapters of our Egyptian escapade. Grab a cuppa (or something stronger), because the journey home was nothing short of an Olympic sport.
The Great Checkout Shuffle: Upgrading to ‘Posh’ by Proxy
Friday marked our final day in Hurghada, and as anyone who has ever been on an evening flight knows, the dreaded 12:00 PM checkout is the ultimate holiday buzzkill. There you are, cast out of your air-conditioned sanctuary like a biblical exile, wandering the resort with your hand luggage like a lost soul.
Fortunately, our travel companions, Darren and Tracy, had played an absolute blinder.
Leveraging the ‘Posh Club’ life
As residents of the resort’s elusive ‘Posh Club’ rooms, they managed to negotiate a delightfully late checkout. In a beautiful display of holiday camaraderie (and because they genuinely pity us), they agreed to let us turn their room into a communal luggage depot.
Even better, it meant Michele and I had a designated basecamp to wash off the afternoon’s sun cream and chlorine before the long trek back to Blighty. There is nothing quite like leveraging your friends’ premium status to live vicariously through the luxury sector for a few hours.
A Very British Breakfast (and an Artisan Gripe)
My morning, however, didn’t start with the usual enthusiastic raid of the breakfast buffet. I was still locked in a mild, ongoing negotiation with King Tut himself—yes, the infamous Pharaoh’s Revenge was still lingering in the background. Because of this, breakfast was a remarkably subdued affair: a bit of dry toast, absolutely no coffee (a tragedy in itself), and a mug of plain black tea. Grounding, sensible, and utterly boring.
By lunchtime, I felt brave enough to venture onto solid foods. I opted for a pizza, thinking it was a safe, universal bet. Oh, how wrong I was.
To say it wasn’t the best is being incredibly polite. As someone who knows their way around a kitchen, my immediate thought flew right back to England. It held absolutely no candle to the glorious, bubbling, perfectly charred crusts I get out of my Ninja Artisan Pizza Oven at home. If you want a job doing right, don’t leave it to an all-inclusive buffet.
Sun, Shade, and Unexpected Ibiza Vibes
With lunch cleared, the four of us headed out to colony our final spot of territory by the pool. We managed to snag a row of four sun loungers.
Naturally, the strategy was split: three loungers were positioned in the blazing, midday Egyptian sun for the sun-worshippers, while mine was firmly, unashamedly anchored in the deep shade.
For a few hours, it was absolute bliss. We sat, chilled, and laughed until our stomachs hurt, reminiscing about the brilliant week we’d just had in Hurghada. It was the perfect, tranquil wind-down.
Until the entertainment team arrived.
Enter the Pink Pool Party
Without a single word of warning, the serene atmosphere was completely shattered. The resort’s animation team descended upon the pool area to launch what they called the ‘Pink Pool Party’.
Suddenly, the horizon was a sea of neon pink inflatables. The bar staff began handing out suspiciously vibrant pink drinks, and giant cannons started blasting clouds of thick, white foam directly into the swimming pool.
When the Kids Invade Ibiza
To complete the surreal transformation, the DJ started spinning tracks at a volume that could only be described as a 4:00 AM Ibiza nightclub vibe.
To this day, I have no idea where they had been hiding all week, but an absolute influx of children materialised out of thin air, diving headfirst into the foam. It was loud, it was chaotic, and it was the ultimate signal that our peaceful holiday was officially drawing to a close.
The Tale of Two Taxis: Flattery vs. The Cairo Commute
At 19:00 sharp, our private transfer arrived. Actually, to be fair, they arrived at 18:40, which caught us mid-final-zip. We split into two separate taxis for the 15-mile drive down the road to Hurghada Airport, and it’s safe to say the two vehicle journeys could not have been more different.
Our driver was a lovely bloke, but his English was incredibly limited, meaning the journey was mostly spent in companionable silence. Through a bit of broken dialogue, we did manage to learn about his grueling routine:
- He works 35 days straight in Hurghada.
- He then drives all the way back to Cairo for a 10-day break to see his young family.
- Then it’s right back to Hurghada to start all over again.
It certainly puts the old British commute into perspective.
Meanwhile, in the other taxi, Darren and Tracy were having a whale of a time. Their driver was incredibly chatty and apparently a master of extreme flattery. He was telling them how remarkably young they both looked. Then, in a magnificent stroke of comedic genius, he looked at them, thought of Michele and me, and asked if we were their parents!
Needless to say, Darren and Tracy haven’t stopped laughing about that one. I’m choosing to blame the lighting.
Airport Bureaucracy and the Great Knitting Crisis
If the taxi ride was amusing, Hurghada Airport quickly brought us back down to reality. It was a masterclass in testing one’s patience.
First up, Michele managed to instantly break the handles on the heavy duty “food bags” we had been given to carry. This meant we spent the rest of the queueing process struggling to lug them around as the remaining straps aggressively cut into her hands.
Then came Tracy’s turn to ruffle the feathers of Egyptian airport security.
The Border Security Dilemma: Apparently, a ball of crocheting wool is viewed as high-level contraband in the cabin.
The security team gave her a strict ultimatum: surrender the woolly stash to the airport bin or go back. Tracy, refusing to let her crafting masterpiece go without a fight, was promptly escorted all the way back to the main check-in desks by an official to force her to check her crocheting wool into her hold luggage. You truly cannot make this stuff up.
The Manchester Marathon: Touchdown to Home
After the crocheting drama was resolved, we finally boarded the flight to Manchester. We pushed back from the gate a little later than scheduled, and the cabin was absolutely packed to the rafters.
Try as we might, Michele and I just could not get comfortable. It was one of those restless, fidgety flights where every position feels like sitting on a bag of rocks.
The Baggage Carousel Carousel
We finally touched down in Manchester at the lovely hour of 02:20 AM. But the fun wasn’t over yet. We stood at the baggage carousel for a solid 20 minutes before a single car seat was retrieved along with a small selection of cases. One of them being ours but no second!
Then, in their infinite wisdom, the airport staff decided to move the rest of our flight’s luggage to an entirely different carousel on the other side of the hall. By the time we finally gathered every single bag, a full hour had ticked by since touchdown.
A Purr-fect Welcome and the Mystery Solved
The taxi finally dropped us off at our front door at 04:00 AM. We were greeted by the loud, demanding meows of Issy and Charlie, who were thoroughly unimpressed by our tardiness but pleased to have their staff back. We crawled into bed shortly after, shivering slightly and deeply dreading the distinct lack of Egyptian warmth.
However, Saturday morning brought one final, hilarious twist to the holiday saga.
Remember Thursday and Friday, when Michele was stressed out of her mind because she had misplaced our resort pool towel cards, threatening us with a hefty lost-card fine?
Well, as I was sorting through the mountain of holiday laundry, guess what reappeared? Safely, snugly, and silently stowed away inside the pocket of a pair of her shorts.
Classic. Welcome home, indeed!
