I’ve always thought the ‘last flight out’ was reserved for truly grave situations abroad – or an apocalypse film starring Will Smith or Brad Pitt. Yet somehow I unknowingly found myself on one – or one of the last – yesterday, flying from Malaga back to Heathrow Airport.
I can’t say the re-instated quarantine rules for Spain came as a total shock. As the number of Covid cases started to surge in Catalonia predominately, but along the coast as well, I’d been keeping tabs on the local press. I didn’t follow along too closely – partially because it was out of my hands but also because The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett is very hard to put down. I sensed a shift was coming though, not necessarily from Spain but from the devolved regions in the UK, as the numbers ticked up each day.
Given the UK’s previous pace for Covid changes (a month-long process into travel quarantines and advanced warning for mandatory face masks), I assumed there’d be at least a week between any changes announced and their implementation. Not so. Whilst picking up my suitcase from baggage claim, the texts started rolling in, asking about my whereabouts and the time of my flight. Sometime between the runway and arrivals, news had broken that anyone arriving back from Spain from midnight onwards would be required to take part in a 14-day quarantine. I’d made it back, with a few hours to spare.
Thinking about my own luck quickly shifted to thinking of the thousands of very unlucky people desperately trying to cancel their summer holidays. Worse-off still were those mid-holiday, having a lovely time and suddenly burdened with the news that their return just became infinitely more complicated.
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