I skidded to a halt at the last place I knew I had my passport (the desk to check in my bike) and was greeted by the half-arsed bloke who had checked it in. He looked me up and down for a second, as if weighing up the pros and cons of this impending interaction, then nonchalantly picked up my passport from behind the desk, muttering something along the lines of, ‘Sorry mate, I forgot to give it back’. My sheer and utter relief meant that only after did I comprehend how outrageous it was that this man had seen me walk off without my passport, without thinking it might be worth letting me know. 

That relief, though, sweet sweet relief. Starting from the very top of my head it trickled through my body like warm honey, enveloping frayed nerves in a soothing embrace. 

I’ve often theorized that losing your keys and then finding them again is actually a net positive, hearing that familiar jangle from down the back of the sofa is truly one of life’s great pleasures, up there with bagging the front seats on the top row of the bus and watching someone fall over on an icy day. By this logic, my brain was pumping out chemicals akin to witnessing the birth of my first child as Harry Kane simultaneously put us three up in the world cup final, pure bliss. 

The little maroon bastard didn’t leave my clenched fists for the rest of the journey, which remarkably passed without incident. By the time my plane touched down on a mild evening in Alicante, my airport mishap already felt like a distant memory. The flames had been stoked. Excitement bubbled away in my stomach, its vapours clouding my thoughts with giddy excitement and visions of intrepid adventure. This was going to be a month to remember…