As you may have guessed by the 2629010372801037291 Instagrams, and several blog posts, last week I buzzed off to Alcudia on my first proper holiday in three years.
It was nice.
I spent the whole time relaxing, doing exactly what I wanted, when I wanted. I napped on sun loungers. Photographed the most perfect beach. I read half a book (which tbh I think is quite an accomplishment when the sun is at eye glaring level 80% of the time), and I ate tapas. Lots of it. I drank cocktails in the company of a Spanish parrot. I swam in the sea.
We stayed at JS Sol de Alcudia, which was lovely and modern, very clean, and did nice cocktails. Which is basically all I need in a hotel. Breakfast was great, the evening meals were hit and miss but generally good.
It was a break I very much needed.
I wrote last week about pre holiday bikini dread, and how the thought of wearing a bikini in front of strangers after having, *ahem*, a couple of cheat years was filling me with absolute disgust.
And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t care. The bikinis I took with me fitted me well and were flattering, so while yes, I still want to shed a couple of stones, I managed to enjoy my holiday without wanting to cry at my belly rolls every time I sat up on the sun lounger.
And I’m so happy about that.
It was the break I needed from everyday life. Relaxing. One on one time with Danny that involved a lot less Instagram scrolling, a lot less xboxing and a lot more laughter than the daily grind.
But I wouldn’t go back to Alcudia.
I didn’t fall in love.
When planning our trip, Alcudia came up in a lot of my searches due to its beautiful beach, cultural old town and authenticity despite tourism. So I went with it.
On arrival we soon realised the resort is a very scattered one. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, with pockets of bars and restaurants but no real centre.
The area around our hotel, the beach area, is quite ‘Brit abroad’ with lots of English and Irish bars aimed solely at British tourists. The more culture filled port area was a half hour walk from our hotel, and the old town was a taxi/bus ride away.
And while I relaxed, and drank, and ate until I almost burst, I didn’t fall in love with Alcudia as a place.
I didn’t click with it in the same way I did with Croatia, and Prague, and Bruges. I didn’t come away with a burning desire to return, leaving me with wanderlust as soon as the plane touched down in Manchester airport. I just didn’t.
So while I loved my week away, the food, the memories I created, and the rejuvenation I feel upon return… I didn’t fall in love.
And life is too short to return to places that don’t grab your heart and make you desperate to revisit.