Yes, Ireland is not part of the United Kingdom and therefore foreign, but they speak English, and many of them in an accent that’s actually comprehensible. Not my uncle Stephen, but that’s why his wife Sarah is always around to translate the lilting mumbles.

Ah! Mmmm mm mmm gh, ha ha! Hey! Mmm mmmm, mmng mmm.

He said he flipped the tractor over in the ditch last week.

I know they also speak some form of English in Canada, the USA, and those former colonies in the southern hemisphere, but you can reach Ireland by a reasonably short ferry ride so you can see why it’s foreign, but not really.

And, the fact my uncle’s Irish should also give you a big clue that one of my parents is as well, and that happens to be my mum. Ireland is a second home nation for me and my brother and so any trips there aren’t to foreign parts. That’s like a legal argument or something.

So, Ireland: not foreign. But Mallorca: very foreign.

Clearly, package holidays were becoming easier to book, perhaps through things like Ceefax and Teletext services on the television (I’ve got a vague memory of my parents watching the pages flip over and making notes), and clearly my parents were doing well enough to switch from nobody letting you pay for a thing across the Irish Sea to splashing the cash on flights, transfers, and hotel accommodation in the Mediterranean.

The hotel we stayed at was the Amapola and it appears to still be there in more-or-less a similar layout as my photos and memories attest to, although a little swankier these days. The area of Mallorca in which the Hotel Amapola was located was Alcudia, situated on the northeast coast of the island. The hotel was set around a hundred metres or so back from the beach and on the edge of a decent-sized lake on which it was possible to take out pedalos and pedal around. And we did.

The big draw for my dad, my brother, and me was the swimming pool. You don’t get outdoor swimming pools very often in the UK, or you don’t get many that you’d want to swim in anyway. That’s the sort of experience that really makes it a holiday. You’ll note that my mum wasn’t included in that list of people enjoying the pool. She never did learn to swim, but she still liked it beside the pool, if not in it. She could sunbathe, she could smoke, she could get drinks delivered to her (we were on an all-inclusive basis), she could flirt with the staff in a way that only just stopped from being full-on sexual harassment; she was happy.

My brother learnt to dive while we holidayed at the Hotel Amapola in Alcudia, and I learnt to surf on a lilo. I’m going to be honest with you here and point out that neither skill has really been used since but they say that lilo-surfing is like riding a bike, and once you learn it’s with you for life, so consider me prepared for whatever the world throws at me so long as there’s water around and an inflatable bed to hand.

The hotel guests were a mixture of British and German tourists for the most part. My understanding is that this is broadly true of Mallorca as a whole and that you’ll likely find certain hotels favour one nationality over another in order to simplify needing multiple languages for announcements, menus, entertainment, etc. While the Amapola was mixed during our stay, I believe that it caters more predominantly for Germans these days. But when are these days? I don’t know when you’re reading this. Check it out yourself before booking.

Activities were arranged at the hotel and clearly my dad took part in some of them as we have photographic evidence.

With our holiday being all-inclusive and my family wanting to take full advantage of it – plus we were all new to foreign travel; there weren’t blogs you could read or videos you could quickly call up – most of our time was spent at the hotel. However, we did venture out on occasion.

The lake at the back of the hotel had a path that could be walked around and I recall that we did that. I also remember people jogging along it. Jogging. On holiday. Madness.

As I’ve mentioned before, there was also a beach a short distance from the hotel. Getting to it and the assorted tourist shops, supermarkets, and restaurants that had sprung up to service the beach crowd involved a walk of just a few minutes but part of that was over what seemed to be an outlet for raw sewage. If I think about it then I can still smell it now. The mind’s a weird thing. After our first experience of crossing this stream of evil we took to sprinting across this stretch of road with hands over our mouths and noses.

The beach at Alcudia was amazing. Sand was amazing to people who’d lived in Portsmouth all of their lives and known only pebbles and shingles and saying “Ooh, ouch, ouch, fffuuu…dge!” while trying to get from towels into water. It was golden-white sand in a crescent-shaped bay with warm water. The water was warm partly because it was the Mediterranean in summer, and partly because the water was shallow. Really shallow. Walk out until the people are ants on the beach in order to get enough depth in which to swim sort of shallow. Even my non-swimming mum was able to brave the water, safe in the knowledge that drowning was going to take a lot of effort.

In addition to shops near the beach we also ventured slightly farther afield with trips to Can Picafort, a town just along the coastline, a visit to a nearby Water Park, and even an organised excursion to the Caves of Drach. No pictures of these, though, for some reason, and not much memory of them either. While I’ve considered my parents unadventurous when it comes to holidays in latter years – Greek Islands and the Canaries on firm rotation, it’s seemed – it’s clear from thinking back that they did try to break up the monotony of simply being at a hotel with occasional forays outside. I guess it can’t have been easy to juggle the strange newness of everything, having two children, and ensuring boredom didn’t set in.

In addition to activities in and around the pool each day, Hotel Amapola provided entertainment every evening too. Music was common, but I remember my dad took part in a Mister Amapola contest (likely pushed up to enter by my mum, and he didn’t win), and it looks like everyone enjoyed the drag show.

And please ignore my red nose. I’m half Irish. Sunshine does strange things to us.

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