If you’re of a superstitious nature then you’ll follow your own advice and never travel on Friday the 13th, and some of the more extreme paraskevidekatriaphobia sufferers amongst us will just pull over the covers and stay in bed for the whole day.

There are tales throughout history and in cultures such as German, Portuguese and Polish as well as our own that reinforce this. Some believe that Judas was the 13th guest at the Last Supper and that Friday the 13th, October 1307 was the day that many Knights Templar were rounded up and tortured. Not all this information is the stuff of legends however. There are statistics in the UK that suggest that Friday the 13th has a higher than average accident rate.

Numerous articles and books are dedicated to why Friday and the number 13 is unlucky and let's not forget about the millions lost in business because some people simply refuse to fly on this day.

However there are those of us (myself included) who pooh-pooh this idea and are quite happy to take advantage of the cheaper seats that are freed up, especially with the prospect of a friends wedding in ibiza coming up. And so armed with my pc I set to the task of finding a flight, I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

There was an Easyjet flight leaving Edinburgh for Madrid on Friday the 13th of April that linked up nicely with an Air-E***pa flight, getting us to Ibiza shortly after 1.00am the next day. Not ideal but at least we’d have a bed and some rest and be ready to face the next day, refreshed and relaxed as the wedding wasn’t until 6.00pm.

On the Thursday before we set off I went on to the Air-E***pa website to print off our Boarding Pass. A pop-up flashed up on the screen informing us that we should phone the Spanish helpline number. We did, but the lovely lady on the end of the line spoke no English and my pathetic attempt at Spanish I’m sure would have complicated the issue further. I surmised that I was to call back in the morning when there would be someone there to help us.

I called at 9.00am and after arduously describing our predicament was promptly cut off, another omen perhaps? Undeterred I called again, this time an exceptionally proficient English speaker informed me that she could do nothing from her end and that I would have to speak to Customer Relations at Terminal 2 on my arrival (a term I later found used loosely).

In the meantime my girlfriend phoned the UK based Air-E***pa number and was told something entirely different. Basically she was told to go to the sales office and be very very angry because the sales assistant said 'they react better that way'.

And so I left Largs on the west coast of the country on what was a beautiful day with clear skies and temperatures of 20c. Going via Glasgow to pick up my girlfriend, Dee, we continued over to the east coast to Edinburgh airport.

Our Easyjet flight left with one hour delay, which though slightly irritating would till get us into Madrid in plenty time for our connection.

We puffed across from Terminal 1 to 2 through some darkened corridors and poor signage (this area was under refurbishment), to the Customer Relations desk where we found the queue to be some 100 people long.

Unbeknown to us the airline had also cancelled a flight due for Havana and that, coupled with an air traffic controllers strike in Paris, meant that there were more than a few irate individuals. It took us almost two hours to reach the front of the queue. By midnight it was still 40 or so deep.

I must admit at this stage I felt a pang of despair for the staff, I could only imagine with what they had to put up with. This feeling, however, didn’t last long and the bubble was well and truly burst when it was our turn.

I could not believe, given our situation and the fact we had queued patiently for nearly three hours, the method in which we were dealt with by the staff. I hadn't even uttered a word when we were we set about in a confrontational fashion and the subsequent ineptitude, arrogance and lack of civil manners were more than enough to inflame the situation.

Firstly the staff member flatly refused to recognise our e-ticket stating that there was no flight at 23.55pm that night. We would have to go to the Sales Office, (which incidentally we noticed was closed on the way past). When I informed her of this her only solution was to sleep in the airport overnight and wait until the office opened in the morning.

Now I consider myself to be a calm, even-minded person but this was the final straw and I demanded in no uncertain terms that she double checked her system and find our names. I wasn’t moving until she did and a Scotsman telling you this in any language is bound to get you results. Surprise surprise, our names appeared, unlike our 23.55 flight which had simply vanished from the schedules.

Ahh, she tells us, you should have been informed of a schedule change in January (we were not), you were automatically put on the 20.30pm flight earlier this evening. You mean the one that left two hours before we arrived in Madrid we asked, "yes" she replied.

This was getting simply ridiculous, especially in today’s world of electronic communication. Sending an email is easy enough, or as a courtesy they could have picked up the phone, they had all our details, and they had over three months to contact us.

Now they knew we existed, we were to be given a hotel room and were waved over to the side and told to wait for a hotel representative who would take care of our accommodation arrangements.

We were to come back at 9.00am as we were now booked onto an 11.45am flight. We weren’t given any other instructions, like the name of the hotel or even a confirmation number.

Across the concourse we noticed some animated Spanish people in heated discussion with what looked liked an hotel rep. We went over, she spoke no English, but through some similar arm waving we came to the conclusion that we were to follow her. We piled into a mini-bus and waited and waited. Only until the mini-bus was full, over 45 minutes later did we leave. It was nearing 1.00am, we would've just landed in Ibiza by now if our journey had gone to plan.

When arrived in what is known in Estate Agent speak as ‘up and coming’, in other words a concrete, graffiti strewn suburb. Forty of us then pounced on an unsuspecting teenage receptionist who after being bombarded with passports and numerous different languages (he also did not speak English) started giving keys to everyone in an attempt to appease the baying crowd. I’m convinced you could walk off the street and get a room at that moment.

I hadn’t eaten since I left Largs at 1.00pm, but luckily we were promised dinner. I appreciate that it was late but this is Madrid, they don’t go out for an evening meal here until 10.00pm.

A French couple who had the tenacity to ask the blundering rep where they could get food was met with a curt shrug of the shoulders. The hotel kitchen was now closed and this being suburbia, you’d be hard pushed to find anywhere open at this time. It was like releasing the hounds, soon the whole party swarmed to her, demanding some form of sustenance. She couldn't take any more and promptly turned on her heel, cantered over to the minibus and locked herself in. Our dinner that night consisted of a Kit Kat, peanuts and an unidentifiable juice from the minibar.

The following morning, rather than get the hotel to organise our transport to the airport, we shared a taxi with a charming guest (who incidentally worked in the tourist industry) and told us that the kind of treatment we experienced is not unusual, especially in Madrid. We returned to the now familiar Customer Relations desk at Air-E***pa and this time the staff couldn’t be more helpful.

We were checked-in on the 11.45am flight which would get us to Ibiza just after lunchtime, just about enough time to get organised for the wedding without too much fuss.

They gave us some phone cards to make the necessary ammendments and to call home(they didn’t work to the UK). We then phoned our friends who were already in Ibiza and informed them of our predicament, they said we had plenty of time as the venue was easy to find, but be warned its been pouring all day, great.

Waiting at the gate shortly before our scheduled departure time of 11.45am, they announced a 25 minute delay, no way, yep, then a 15 minute one, a double whammy.

At this point I observed a technician with a toolbox and a resigned look on his face going in under the nose of our plane, that's whe the alarms bells started ringing. Shortly after and almost to the script, our second flight of the trip got cancelled.

I am a patient man, I work in the catering industry so I have to be, but this was too much. We marched down to where else, but Customer Relations and demanded we be put on another flight with another airline.

There was a 14.30 Spanair direct. Yes, they said, they could do that. We could be on that flight, but our luggage wouldn’t.

There was a 15.30 Air-E***pa non-stop which though tight, would get us to the island in time for the wedding and with our cases. We had no other choice.

You might guess the rest, we were ready to board at 15.30 when they announced a delay. Then another one. We were on board at 16.30. Now there was a technical problem. The arm that connects the plane to the terminal was broken and had to be moved manually. Calling the steward I asked what the technicians circling the arm were doing (it didn’t look like much). I even offered to go out and help push. That's what they ended up doing.

I’ve never done this before, I buzzed the steward again, it was now 16.45 and I insisted to be taken off the plane, me, my girlfriend and our luggage. You must understand he said to me, almost apologetically this is Spain. Didn’t I know it.

Undetered and resolute in my decision, we were coming off. Just then and with comic timing the captain announced that we were clear for take-off, it was almost as if he'd waited until I'd finished my rant just to make me look stupid.

As it turns out we sat for another half an hour on the tarmac waiting for our slot before finally setting off, I mean what's 30 minutes when you've been waiting 17 hours!

Our final approach was met with a few Ole’s as we dropped towards Ibiza airport in thunderstorms and lashing rain. The captain finally welcomed us to Ibiza, the outside temperature was 10c, half of what it was in Scotland, and the local time was 6.15pm. The wedding had started a quarter of an hour ago.

Ibiza in the off season is not a pretty sight. It's like an H-bomb has hit the place and only now are there signs of life returning. And so we got our car, a Fiat Panda, not ideal for tackling roads which were being battered by torrential rain and flash floods, but we had to find our hotel and soon for a quick turnaround. We were already embarassingly late.

Armed with an email of the address we scoured the relatively small Playa d’En Bossa in vain, the hotel was nowhere to be found. We stopped a number of people and no-one appeared to know where the hotel was or for that matter even heard of it. Finally we went into a pharmacy where a helpful chap went online and came up with a map of Ibiza Town. He was sure that our hotel was just north of the pretty town. Off we went, with new purpose, but alas to no joy.

Eventually we phoned our hotel agent on the only telephone number we were given, only to be greeted by voicemail, it was now out of office hours we were told.

Time for an executive decision, we were going to the wedding and it would have to be as we were, jeans, t-shirts, trainers and combats.

As we approached the venue, Dee went into her luggage to get some perfume only to discover that the lock on her bag had been broken into and jewellery and some duty free had been stolen. It hadn’t left our sight until Air-E***pa took it all those hours ago at 9.00am.

Could this day get any worse?

The wedding and the venue were spectacular, a large converted farmhouse decked in a Moroccan Kasbah style. Unabashed and well over the humiliation we went over to congratulate the elegant couple and apologised for our delay, over two hours late and dressed worse than the 16 year old dishwasher we passed on the way in. We would explain, another time. Luckily we were well hidden at the table behind a pillar and next to some understanding fellow guests.

It was the first time in almost 30 hours that we could finally relax, we did miss the ceremony unfortunately but got there just as the starters were coming out.

However, the bad weather got progressively worse and I was in fear of the tent flying away and ending up on the mainland (taking my delicious goats cheese tartlet with it). The rain was pounding so heavily on the canvas that a microphone had to be employed to hear the speeches.

Despite this we passed a wonderful evening, an experience we won't forget in a hurry.
Shortly after midnight we said our goodbyes and headed off to our hotel, mindful that we still had to find it at this point. All this with the prospect of 4 hours sleep as we had to be at the airport for 6.00am the following morning.

This time we were armed with a map that the receptionist at the villa kindly printed out for us, according to the print out the hotel was located in Playa D'en Bossa after all and not Ibiza Town.

We got to the town and the only person around was a nightclub bouncer whom we asked for directions, he had never heard of the place.

It was now 1.15am, we were well and truly stranded if it were not for a jolly fellow who stumbled out of a local bar and thankfully led us promptly to the gates of the complex.

It was located on the street opposite the nightclub we had been to earlier. It was also about 20 metres or so from the pharmacy we had asked directions from the day before.

And so an end to our escapade was in sight. Well, not quite, the hotel was in fact an unserviced apartment, hence the reason there was no contact number, but a note pinned to the door assured us that our room was ready and that the key was in the lock.

Despite the time, I felt I needed a shower but alas no towels! I scoured the room and noticed a large tablecloth, that would have to do.

And so, finally we got to bed, bitterly cold yet too tired to find the heating, all this for a whole three and a half hours sleep.

Up the next morning at 5.30am, we dropped the car off at the airport, checked in and went to speak to the local Police regarding Dee's stolen items. We would have to speak to Madrid they said.

We finally got to Madrid, this time with Iberia but my bag was enjoying an extended stay in Barcelona. Marvellous! We had three hours to wait before our Easyjet connection and there were another three flights coming in so there was a good chance it would come on one of them.

Getting the incident report proved to be a wild goose chase, the Guardia Civil (customs officials) telling us it was the Police who dealt with this, and vice versa.

We were finally told to jump back into the arrivals hall and speak to the Police officials there (we would have to wait until someone came out of arrivals and leap in before the sliding doors wooshed shut).

That done we went back to see our old friends at the Air E***pa Customer Relations desk and insisted on speaking to a manager. We were told that the items stolen from Dee’s bag were in the custody of someone at Air E***pa’s. As time was running out for our Edinburgh flight, I left and began the search for my bag. It was here an airline official assured me, only in Terminal 4, the Iberia terminal, a 30 minute round trip on the bus.

Dee got her statement, I got my bag, rushing back and made check-in for the Edinburgh flight by ten minutes.

Dee and I have decided to get married, after all if our relationship can survive this then it can survive anything.

Air E***pa would make Fawlty Towers look like a slick operation. It was inexcusable the treatment we received and an embarrassment for an airline which hopes to join the frequent flyer programs of the big boys KLM and Air France.

We have sent a letter to their head office and submitted two written complaints at the Customer Relations desk, but we won’t be holding our breath for a reply.

When we arrived in Edinburgh we were greeted with a soothing warm breeze welcoming us home and I felt like kissing the tarmac. En route a double decker bus passed us with a big orange advert on the side, Glasgow to Ibiza direct from £31.99. I couldn’t make this up and no-one would believe it anyway.

I can assure you it did happen, and you know what, I now believe that I should never have gotten out of bed last Friday.


Footnote: Air-E***pa have apologised for the gross inconvenience and kindly offered us four free flights, so hats off in the end.