Times 2 - UK (2020-07-27)

the times | Monday July 27 2020 1GT 7

life

Bella Younger

in Mallorca

end, we reasoned that moving house

was definitely on the “essential

travel” list and that to make it as safe

as possible we couldn’t risk a flight.

The borders were slated to open in

July, which was at least a sign that

the government, if not the locals,

welcomed our arrival. We decided to

make it a road trip — me, my

brother and sister, my parents and

Pedro, the westie-poo, in two cars

driving via London and then

through France to Spain.

We drove in convoy, packing both

cars to the rafters with necessities

such as chilli jam and Hellmann’s

mayonnaise. Prepared to be

interrogated at every turn, we

stashed reams of paperwork in the

glove box. We printed attestations

that we were only passing through

France, we wrote sworn statements

that we had no symptoms of Covid,

we had proof that we owned property

in Spain and a thermometer to make

sure none of us tried to cross a border

with a temperature.

We were taking no chances and still

I didn’t sleep the night before we left.

Arriving in London and seeing people

crammed into shops and cafés only

made us more anxious. We stayed

overnight with my aunt — she had

already had the virus, so I reasoned

she would probably be safe.

Still, I was haunted by the image of

a family of superspreaders breathing

Covid all over rural France. We had

a vat of hand sanitiser big enough to

clean the deck of the ferry and were

masked and gloved wherever we went.

We approached Folkestone clutching

sausages, I broke down. “I cannot live

in this country any more. No one is

obeying the rules!”

I spoke to my therapist, who advised

me to find some click-and-collect slots

and stay the hell off Instagram. I’m

a comedian and made my name

satirising wellness and clean eating

with my account Deliciously Stella. I

had decided that it was my public duty

to entertain people in lockdown and

had driven myself insane coming up

with “content”. It was a slippery slope

— at the peak of my success, in 2016,

I had been in hospital with severe

anxiety and depression, a result of

spending all my time stuck in

Instagram’s pixelated prison.

“Stop watching the daily briefings,”

my therapist said. “Try and avoid the

news.” It was impossible to escape the

fact that the UK’s pandemic response

wasn’t going well. The papers were full

of pictures of streets near my London

flat crawling with picnickers and

general merriment. Then I spoke to

my aunt in Mallorca who told us that

the police were guarding the roads and

all was calm by comparison.

That’s when it occurred to me:

perhaps there was a way out of my

misery. After all, I’d been planning to

go to Mallorca for a holiday this

summer anyway — my parents have

a retirement project there that they

rent out.

And so began our great Covid road

trip. At first, I admit, I was scared to

tell my Spanish family we were

thinking about coming. My uncle

had been shielding because of a heart

condition and I worried they’d think

we were selfish. Not only that, I was

worried that we were selfish. Was it

moral to travel during a pandemic?

Were airports coronavirus hotbeds?

Would we even be allowed in?

There was also the added stress of

what I might say to my Instagram

followers. I imagine this ranks quite

far down the list for most, but I’ve got

over 100,000 of them, and “idiot who

flees to Mallorca in a pandemic” isn’t

a personal brand I wanted to lean into.

“Do you think they’ll think I’m

awful because Mum and Dad have

a second home?” I asked my sister.

“It’s not very relatable,” she replied.

I umm-ed and ahh-ed over whether

I was more worried about being an

immoral cow or looking like one, but

while coronavirus had initially given

me anxiety, eventually what it gave me

was perspective. With something real

and terrifying to worry about,

concerns about the number of people

unfollowing my Instagram subsided.

I was determined to go.

Together, my family and I pored

over the government travel advice.

What did “advise against” really

mean? What constituted essential

travel? Was it legal? Was it safe? In the

Prepared to be

interrogated, we

stashed reams

of paperwork

our paperwork, our reason for travel

rehearsed and note perfect. Pulling up

to French customs, I held my breath.

We were waved straight through.

When we stopped to get petrol in

Calais there wasn’t a mask in sight.

Men laughed when we reached for the

pump in our plastic gloves. The

French seemed far more horrified by

my pronunciation of fromage from

behind my mask than they were about

viral load. At our stopover hotel my

sister went for a pump of hand

sanitiser from the bar, only to find that

it was a vat of vinegar. I instructed my

family not to touch anything.

Still, we weren’t taking chances: we

took turns to drive for three-hour

stints, barely pausing to take in the

stunning scenery. Stopping meant

unnecessary exposure to the virus.

I made it my mission to become my

parents’ human shield, diving in front

of them whenever an unmasked

stranger came too close. The last thing

I wanted was for them to catch Covid,

or worse, give it to someone else.

This plan didn’t always work out. I’d

researched a park in France for us to

stop and have a picnic in isolation; it

wasn’t until we turned into an

industrial park, full of mustachioed,

unmasked French men that I realised

how wrong I’d got things.

My family nicknamed me “the

cops” because of my militant Covid

etiquette and the amount of coffee

I’d consumed on the drive. In the

end, we stopped so infrequently, we

arrived for our ferry to Mallorca

seven hours early.

It was on this voyage that Covid

was mentioned by a stranger for the

first time. We were required to fill out

a form swearing that we neither had

symptoms nor had we taken

paracetamol to bring down

incriminating fevers.

I’d expected scenes of

Mallorca flooded by

virus-riddled tourists,

plastic screens erected

between sunloungers and

angry locals ready to

scrub us down with bleach,

but perhaps a virtue of

living far from Magaluf is

that so far I’ve seen no

evidence of anyone but us.

Rather selfishly I hope it

stays that way — because

it has been wonderful. I

have met up with friends,

eaten in a restaurant, and

been flirted with by the

man who runs the tip. I feel

more normal than I have

done in months and

everyone in Mallorca has to

wear a mask whenever

they’re in public

Since our arrival the

locals have been charming, the quiet

coves as tranquil as ever and our

relatives thrilled to see us. While parts

of Spain sadly seem to be heading

towards a second wave (and the

Department for Transport has now

announced that all travellers from

Spain to the UK must quarantine at

home for two weeks), Mallorca still

feels safe. I’m still scouring the daily

bulletins for reports of new outbreaks

and praying it’s not from Brits, but as

my hands grow raw from hand

sanitiser and I sweat behind my

mask, I’m comforted that we’re doing

our best and I’m in the best place

I could be.

As I mentioned, I don’t mean to

sound smug — but it’s pretty

hard not to.

PEP BONET/NOOR FOR THE TIMES

Would anyone

stop me on

my great

lockdown

road trip?

Bll Yunger

in

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While the rest of us were worrying

about air bridges, Bella Younger got in

the car and drove — to Mallorca