How I paid the price for booking a cheap holiday

Summer is a time for holidays and headaches, writes Michael Simkins

Passengers board an EasyJet aircraft on the tarmac at London Southend Airport. Simon Dawson / Bloomberg

The definition of insanity, proclaimed Albert Einstein, is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

So, why, I ask myself, do I, and hundreds of thousands like me, persist in an activity I already know will only bring exhaustion, despair and madness – quite possibly all at the same time? I speak of the practice of booking cheap holiday flights and expecting the experience to be a pleasant one.

Time was when flying by aero­plane to far-off exotic destinations was synonymous with style and sophistication. No more. In the era of mass air travel and package holidays, it has all the elegance of a journey through central London in rush hour on an overcrowded bus.

I was reminded of this last week when the alarm went at the unearthly hour of 3.30am to wake me for my el cheapo holiday flight to Greece. One of the inevitable austerities of cheap air travel is the unearthly hour of departures, an inevitable sacrifice that must be borne with fortitude and good humour.

My economy class flight from a small airport north of London may be at 6 o’clock, but just think of the savings I’m making. And by the time my neighbours were thinking about lunch, I’d be swimming in the warm, clear waters of the Ionian Sea.

I kept the image in mind as my minicab travelled at breakneck speed along the motorway towards the airport. My driver had been at work since 10 the previous night, and if our conversation was intense and ranged over everything from politics to the weather and the Rio Olympics, it was only because I was trying to keep him awake long enough to deliver us safely to the terminal.

But this was only the start of my travails. Despite leaving plenty of time for the journey, a long queue of stalled traffic on the approach the terminal drop-off point (£3 per passenger), soon had me staring at my watch and chewing my nails. On all sides, cramped, overheating cars were full with cramped, overheating holidaymakers.

Check–in was the usual dismal interlude, with snaking queues of bleary parents, wailing children, and luggage that was either too large or too heavy to accord with the airline’s restrictions (2 kilograms over, that’ll be £30 please). At the front desks frazzled holidaymakers rooted through their luggage, extracting overcoats and donning pullovers in a desperate attempt to beat the weight limit, even though the expected temperature at our destination was in the middle 30s.

But my nightmare was only beginning, for I still had to go through security. Belts off, shoes off, coins in the tray – no you can’t a take that orange juice onboard, you’ll have to drink it here or leave it. My nail file was deemed an offensive weapon.

Worse still, the steel rod currently sustaining my left elbow (the result of a broken arm while playing cricket some years ago) set off the metal detector, necessitating a long and involved explanation of my surgical procedures to a grim-faced official.

By the time I got through it all, the final call for passengers for my flights to Corfu was being announced. No time for shopping or a leisurely breakfast, instead it was a mad dash along endless identical corridors. I’d seen footage of herds of wildebeest crossing the Masi river having an easier time of it than this.

And finally I arrived at the specified gate, only to be informed that the inbound flight was still somewhere over Northern France and that there’d be a consequent delay of 90 minutes.

Why do I do it? Why, each and every summer, do I put myself through this ordeal, all in pursuit of a few days in the sun and a few extra pounds in my pocket?

Well, now I know. As I write this, a turquoise sea is laid out before me, the majestic Albanian coastline shimmers in the distance, and a mouthwatering selection of fresh fruit and a cafe au lait await my attention. Ahead lies seven days of sun and fun, and the horror of my journey here will soon seem no more than a dream I once had.

Until, of course, it’s time to return.

Michael Simkins is an actor and writer in London

On Twitter: @michael_simkins