Menorca Edition

Family Holiday (Terms and Conditions Apply)

It started, like most of our best ideas, with a group chat and a very reasonable intention.

Two single mums. The kids. One week in Menorca. The brief was simple: sun, sea, early nights. A wholesome family holiday, the kind you post with a caption about gratitude and nobody believes you.

Torre Vella delivered. A finca lost in the vineyards outside Alaior, the kind of silence Paris has forgotten exists, and a pool where nobody asked us for anything for at least eleven minutes at a time. The kids swam until their fingers wrinkled. We read actual books. With pages. The first night was paella at Santa Ponsa, and we were in bed before midnight?

We were, at this stage, exemplary mothers.

Day two was Tuesday, morning at the Naveta des Tudons, three thousand years old and still standing, afternoon in the coves of Binibeca, dinner at Salitre. Sunburnt, fed, content. And somewhere in the background, on every screen on the island, France was playing Spain in the World Cup semi-final.

On the 14th of July. In Spain.

You know how that went. Two nil. No Mbappé miracle, no Marseillaise, no comeback. Just an entire island of very happy Spaniards and four Frenchies staring into their glasses like widows at a wake.

The kids were asleep. The finca was quiet.

We looked at each other.

It wasn't a decision, really. It was grief management.

Jazzbah. The port of Ciutadella, forty minutes across the island, in dresses that had been packed "just in case". Up on the rooftop, the boats below, the whole port singing a victory we had no part in. We ordered a pomada for courage and a second one for patriotism.

Here's the thing nobody tells you about losing to Spain in Spain: the Spaniards are extremely good winners.

They saw two French girls drowning their sorrows and decided, collectively and generously, that this could not stand. Condolences were offered. Drinks appeared. Someone translated the chants so we could be insulted properly. And then two, tall, tanned, with the very specific confidence of men whose country had just reached a World Cup final, sat down next to us and offered to dry our tears.

We let them. It seemed diplomatic.

The rooftop became the dance floor downstairs. The dance floor became a very long goodbye on the quay. Somewhere in there, the Franco-Spanish rivalry was settled once and for all, and I'm happy to report it ended in a draw.

We drove back across the island with the windows down and the sky going pink over the fields. We tiptoed into Torre Vella like teenagers, which, for the record, is a much harder skill at our age.

The boat was booked for the next morning. Six hours at sea, Macarella, Mitjana, champagne on board. The kids wanted to know why we were wearing sunglasses at breakfast. We said it was the sun.

France lost the World Cup. We, on the other hand, made a very convincing case for European unity.

Viva España. Officially, we were rooting for France.