Husband and I went to a wedding last year near Tarragona in Spain.
It might have been the heady thrill of being away on our own without the kids for the first time in a looong time, but we were charmed by the whole area.
“We should come back here with the kids,” my husband says, over our fourth cocktail on the rooftop bar, next to the pool.
“ ” I slur, chasing my straw around the hollowed-out coconut. “ ”
After determining that we weren’t so sloshed that we were going to cough up for a H10 hotel stay for five of us, I leave it to husband to book it.
“There’s a cool-looking camping resort near enough, will we go with that?” he asks.
“ ” says I, falling headfirst into the pool with piña colada dribbling down my chin.
And then I forgot all about it until it was time to stress pack the bags and find the EHIC cards (two out of five ain’t bad) and get ourselves to the airport.
I thought we were very savvy, finding an off-the-beaten-track paradise for our 10-day escape.
It’s such a short plane ride, I marvel, Cork direct to Reus, then not even a 20-minute commute to the campsite. Clever us!
“Fair play, husband,” I nudge him, impressed. The last time I organised a trip, we stayed in five different French campsites in 10 days, and it nearly broke him.
So I have to give him his dues.
“Apparently,” he says proudly, “there’s a cool water park very close by, and one of the world’s top five tallest and fastest roller-coasters. We’ll have to go there.”
“Hmm,” I frown. “Seems like something that would attract a lot of people.”
Here we were, thinking we’d discovered a hidden gem. Nope.
The camping site is Sanguli — half of Cork is there, and the other half was there before, or is planning it.
So, for the seven people who haven’t yet had the pleasure, here’s a little advice if you’re visiting Sanguli or Cambrils campsites in Salou. (They’re next door to each other, Cambrils is more suited for younger kids.)
Be prepared to meet randomers at the pool.
There’s nothing worse than feeling exposed with someone you usually see when you’re both wrapped in thermal layers at the side of a pitch.
You don’t want to be chatting to the fella who coaches the U10s hurling in your threadbare swimming cossie from 1997.
It’s bad enough he’s in budgie smugglers and you have to keep squinting up at the sun to avoid his happy trail.
He may have played county, but that was a long time ago, bud.
This is a combination of three parks — PortAventura Park, Ferrari Land, and Caribe Aquatic Park.
We changed our Lidl Plus card from Ireland to Spain and got a coupon for 30% off for Caribe.
You’re not allowed bring food or balls in, both of which are prerequisites for going anywhere with our three boys, so we had to abandon the ball, and scoff the food in a panic crouch while maintaining eye contact with security, like sunburnt raccoons at a picnic.
Go early, as queues get longer as the day goes on. Ferrari World next door opens at 4.30pm so we pop in there for a lark.
We forget to do the discount for that one — it’s about €100 for the five of us. We start queuing for Red Force. It takes about two hours.
The giga rollercoaster is 112m high and goes from 0 to 180km/h in five seconds. I don’t think I need that kind of thrill in my life, do I?
But the boys kind of bundle me on when we finally get to the top. “Err, I’m not sure about thi…” And we are off.
Apparently, Marc Gené, Ferrari test driver, has said a ride on Red Force is the closest thing to being in a Formula 1 racing car, since its acceleration and G-force are very similar.
Well, Mr Gené, let me tell you this — G-force + massive height = mammy go black out.
I remember screaming, having a nice little faint for myself, then opening my eyes at the apex of the ride, screaming again, then the boys helping my quivering form out to make way for the next bunch of lunatics to stare into the maws of death. The whole thing takes under two minutes.
“Are you OK, Mom?” asks the 10-year-old.
“Check the carriage behind us,” I whimper. “I think my tits are still in there.”
