Despite feeling somewhat guilty upon arrival, choosing to return to Spain amid a pandemic didn’t feel like a choice, it was a given. The forest school where we were doing our voluntary placement had definitive dates for reopening, and trips to Spain were now allowed.
I’d longed to go back ever since it seemed vaguely possible, so I was over the moon when it was announced there would no longer be a quarantine period for those coming back from Spain. It felt like we were being encouraged, even.
I arrived at the airport with dreams of queuing up to board with only ten other people, spreading out along three seats, my carry-on across the ones opposite, skipping off the plane as soon as we touched down.
The reality was that I was crammed in at all angles, just grateful that I had elected not to shout at the father and son duo who had so ignorantly pushed in when they realised they had been waiting in the wrong 50-person-long queue, as the former was now sharing my armrest.
We were reasonably sensible when there. We walked around in masks, met small numbers of friends outside, and only if it was, like, really cold did we venture inside bars. Hand sanitiser upon entry, of course.
At the school things were a little different. Children will sneeze in your face and look confused if you react with anything less than a smile of gratitude. They were heartbroken when I explained I wasn't allowed to share my dried fruit (me, less so). While changing tiny socks and nappies, pulling my mask up and down for a spot of Spanish peek-a-boo proved popular entertainment to get through having to stand still for two minutes.
But aside from that, the forest was the forest: beautiful as ever. A reminder that some things remain constant despite whatever craziness is going on around it. We made fires, sang songs about fires, and threw rope into trees just to try and get it out again.
My housemate and I bore the mask-laden hour-long bus rides to the school in our sleep-deprived states (with limited time, we didn't want to compromise on late night cervezas, or staying up to watch MasterChef) with the light at the end of the tunnel, our blissful two weeks of freedom to enjoy the Galician coast before having to return to less sunny and less exciting England.
It was cut short, though, when the UK government announced there would once again be a two week quarantine period for those returning from Spain, and a £1,000 fine for those who were found cheating the rules.
With my housemate having to leave due to having a proper job, and me needing to be back to start my masters (and not wanting to brave a potential second lockdown without him), after two days of desperate hope for some sort of reversal, we conceded and booked the flights.
I’ve got to say, not having our documents checked felt like a massive kick in the teeth. My friends praisingly spoke of goodwill, but I would’ve happily had a chip implanted in my arm, a tag around my ankle, anything to justify missing my two weeks of frolicking around the Galician coast, wind in my air, sweaty mask on my face. Finishing off the school term would’ve been nice too. I already missed my wild toddlers.
Quarantining for the good of the people would have been a lot more of an encouragement if it weren’t that my city in Spain had less cases and stricter measures than my city in England. Indeed, the hellish boiling hot three hour train journey up from Stansted, with maybe 30% of the full carriage wearing masks, felt a lot more dangerous than the plane. (Seriously, who locks windows during a summertime pandemic?)
However, reminding myself that I wasn’t the only one somewhat inconvenienced by the whole fiasco, and that I might’ve otherwise been in a hospital bed, did console me quite a lot. Usually knowing it could be worse doesn’t help at all, but when the source of the hardship is the same, I found it’s a more successful aid. Plus, it turns out having nothing to do but two weeks of reading books and watching Spanish films (studying) and getting to act somewhat hard done by isn’t that terrible after all.