High Hopes, High Speeds & Highly Questionable Hair

Colourful Son brought my cousin. I brought my courage. Nobody brought a sensible adult.

Michel Euesden went looking for a little escape from appointments, paperwork and everyday life. She found it 1,350 metres above her comfort zone on the Sunview Park zip line near Málaga — complete with family, ballast, a Spaniard called Paco and highly questionable hair.

There are many ways to rise above life’s problems. This week, I chose a harness and a Spaniard called Paco.

My cousin thought we were going for lunch. Colourful Son delivered her to a mountain. I applied lipstick, surveyed the drop and briefly wondered whether becoming a calmer woman might have been easier.

Too late, cariño. We’d booked.

But before I could fly, there was the small matter of surviving my diary.

First, Survive the Diary

After a very fast, gloriously eclectic weekend of meeting friends old and new, Monday morning began with a visit to my miniature Frankenstein.

My fifth visit to the electric gym. Clearly, familiarity breeds increased voltage.

“Today, Michel, a little more.”

A little more WHAT? Encouragement? Compassion? Breakfast?

No. Electricity.

He decided to pump up the volume—or, more accurately, my personal contribution to the electricity bill.

Within seconds, I was attempting squats while my knees developed a magnetic attraction usually reserved for teenagers behind a chiringuito.

Doing squats with your knees involuntarily conducting their own reunion is most definitely NOT a look any woman, man or beast should attempt at any age.

Trust me, cariño. Trust me.

Think flamingo being rebooted.

“¡Muy bien, Michel! ¡Muy bien!”

He says this frequently. Presumably because “Good heavens, what have we created?” would affect repeat bookings.

I believed not one word.

My teeth were still chattering for the duration of the next fifty kilometres to my doctor’s consultation and scans. Why would anyone put themselves through that before medical appointments?

No one sensible would.

I did.

Monday and Tuesday: written off. My diary was filling up nicely with people who wanted to inspect, electrify or otherwise interfere with me.

Then back to my next smiling sadist, lovely Nacho at the dentist.

Nacho explains things as though I am five. Given that I’m gripping the chair and mentally demanding a sticker, this is probably appropriate.

“Anaesthetic without adrenaline, Michel. Doctor’s orders. It wears off faster.”

He wasn’t kidding.

There are avocados with a longer useful window.

Now, I am an adrenaline enthusiast. Coffee and Red Bull Light rather give the game away. Removing adrenaline from my dental arrangements feels like a fundamental misunderstanding of the customer.

But Nacho is under doctor’s orders.

Mouth open. Dignity in the tray beside the instruments.

¡Madre mía!

Management Positions Are Filled

Outside the dental chair, however, I’m rather enjoying having a say in proceedings.

The offers to change my solo status have been absolutely supercalifragilistic for the ego. Very flattering. Lovely for the complexion.

But someone telling me what to do?

No, señor.

We have a vacancy for companionship, darling. Management positions are filled.

I am where I am, and I’m enjoying discovering what that can look like.

Time for me. Time for my new venture. Time for adventures.

What other time is there?

Well, laundry. But laundry can submit a formal request.

Yes, I may have an AI twin, but I haven’t seen her designing copy, visiting clients old and new or working out our strategies while I recline somewhere looking expensive.

She has my face. Apparently, she also has a better union and negotiated better working conditions.

So, after all this, I decided it was time to spend a day with my genius. My “brain”. To thrash out a few ideas.

Mine are a few.

His arrive at a thousand kilometres an hour, fully formed, with relatives.

Natural intelligence at that level is simply intoxicating.

I arrive with a thought. He produces an entire universe with expansion possibilities.

“Hang on, cariño. I haven’t taken the lid off my coffee.”

Security, Biscuits & Gracie Claws

A day in my magical office was necessary, with the security team in tow.

Being fair, Teddy and Gracie are letting me out solo less and less. Their demands are increasing. Apparently, I require supervision.

Rich, coming from people who lick furniture.

Everyone who visits receives the same scrutiny. Gracie has become particularly rigorous about documentation.

Name? Purpose of visit? Birth certificate? Mother’s maiden name? Any previous convictions involving a Labrador?

She appears to have removed all my mistrust and taken it on board herself.

Columbo could hang up his raincoat. Poirot could put down his moustache comb.

Miss Marple with paws is running the investigation.

Gracie Claws. Full detective mission. No biscuit left unexamined.

Meanwhile, work on the house ceased for the week to accommodate my absence.

Antonio did not.

Eight o’clock. Prompt. Ring doorbell.

Fabulous invention. Through whatever technological witchcraft permits me to answer my front door from kilometres away, there he is.

“¡Buenos días, señora Michel! ¿Cómo está?”

Then the real business.

When can he return for his café solo and custard creams?

Bless his little hobnail boots.

Antonio, this is a private residence. You appear to have enrolled yourself on an all-inclusive package.

I do not know where Mr E found him, but I occasionally wish collection had been included.

There are just some things a workman does not need to know.

When I establish exactly what type of workman he is, perhaps I’ll be able to speak a language he understands. At present, his strongest qualifications appear to be punctuality, biscuit assessment and knowing considerably more about my movements than necessary.

“¡Vamos!” is not doing it.

Possibly he thinks it means “come in, the kettle’s on”.

A Nice Family Outing...

Added to all this, my extended family had arrived to check on how I’m REALLY doing, cleverly disguised as people on holiday.

Unfortunately, they had booked with possibly the worst holiday representative in Andalucía.

My AI twin was more available than I was.

She can handle the welcome meeting. It’s about time she did something.

Then I saw Sarah Hawes debuting her zip-wire expedition with considerable aplomb.

Well.

If Sarah could, surely I should?

Ask a friend and suddenly it’s done. Booked. GoPro camera. Jeep. Archery.

The full shebang.

I’m not sure of the precise Spanish equivalent, but ¡con todo! covers most of my decision-making.

I only fancied a little outing. Somehow we’d commissioned an action film.

Colourful Son collected my unsuspecting cousin, and we assembled a few witnesses.

There should always be witnesses to my adventures. For the occasions when people assume I’m embellishing, they can provide independent testimony.

Sunview Park, Alhaurín de la Torre

Our destination was Sunview Park in Alhaurín de la Torre, Málaga, around twenty kilometres from the city. A Costa del Sol adventure close enough for a day out, but with a setting that made my normal routine feel wonderfully distant.

My cousin had come to see how her older cousin was faring.

She anticipated a quiet meal. A gentle catch-up. A chiringuito on the front.

Possibly prawns.

Certainly a chair.

Instead, Colourful Son delivered her to a mountain.

Clearly, “a nice family outing” requires tighter definition in this household.

But what a place to find yourself.

The mountains around you. The Málaga valley stretching out below. That glorious expanse of sky.

Away from the madding crowd, the appointments, the decisions and the little demands that somehow consume entire days.

No one asking you to forward a document.

No one explaining that you need another document before they can accept the first document.

The mountains were making absolutely no administrative demands.

I liked them immediately.

It felt as though someone had opened a window in my head.

Then I saw the zip line and wondered whether they might close it again.

I had come to clear my head. Apparently, we were using wind pressure.

My medical team already had quite enough Michel-related material without my diary acquiring an aviation section.

How long have you got, doctor?

There were consent forms, naturally. Nothing says “relaxing excursion” quite like paperwork before departure.

I had even written the “in the event of” letter.

An unusually dramatic prelude to a day out, admittedly. Most people just check whether they’ve packed sunglasses.

The furry family had been fed, promises of custard creams made, lipstick applied and a big slug of Red Bull Light taken.

Ready for action.

The Ballast Problem

Then the first little complication.

Not a problem, exactly. A hurdle.

I was too light.

After years of women being told to lose weight, here was a man informing me that I required additional ballast.

A jacket. A weighted vest.

In the heat.

A stone’s throw from the sun.

I had dressed for adventure and was now being upholstered for transport.

Think Christmas parcel with unresolved delivery issues.

“¿Todo bien?”

Define bien, Paco. I’m slow-roasting.

Colourful Son was getting considerably more entertainment than a Sunday roast, while my cousin was discovering that our family’s approach to sightseeing comes with equipment.

Why had I thought this was a good idea?

And why had I also said yes to a parachute jump in Sevilla?

One airborne commitment at a time, Michel. You haven’t finished this one.

Was there a form for my decision-making? Did it need signing, copying, triplicating and translating?

In Spain, surely somebody had a stamp for it.

Three, Two, One...

Then up the steps, suddenly understanding Anne Boleyn’s reservations about approaching a raised platform.

She, of course, had Henry VIII.

I had arranged this myself.

No husband required. Apparently, I now outsource my own dramatic exits.

This was my choice. Mine, pure and simple.

I can confirm in any language that the launch position is not the most elegant.

No flattering ankle. No casually tilted chin. No “take it again, my hair looks odd”.

Just me, suspended in a harness, contemplating the wire that was about to carry me across a very considerable amount of scenery.

A remarkably slender-looking wire when you’re the person attached to it.

When was it checked?

Where was the certificate?

Why had I become interested in paperwork NOW, after spending the week trying to escape it?

Behind me, delightful Paco began counting.

“¡Tres, dos, uno!”

Hang on, I haven’t—

And there I was.

Flying.

Actually flying.

The ground dropped away, the air rushed past and the landscape opened beneath me.

What a magnificent feeling.

For once, my brain stopped holding seventeen separate committee meetings.

No invoices. No appointments. No explanations.

Just sky.

The mountains. The valley. The extraordinary sensation of moving through it all.

I thought of my genius and what we are about to launch. All those ideas. All those possibilities.

Suddenly, the sky felt less like a limit and more like available space.

I could really fly.

And I felt on top of the world.

That was my reset for the soul.

Michel’s way. With lipstick, ballast and witnesses.

The problems hadn’t disappeared. But they weren’t taking up every available inch of me.

There was room for excitement.

Room for joy.

Room for a rather astonished “I DID THAT!”

Highly Questionable Hair

It was over far too soon.

The Spanish people who had gone before me clapped and cheered.

“¡Bravo! ¡Muy bien!”

At last. A muy bien I believed.

Nails intact. Lipstick in place. Hair looking like Vidal Sassoon had opened a salon inside a wind tunnel.

A coup de sauvage, if you will.

Apparently, de rigueur at altitude.

Colourful Son now had another story about his mother.

As though the poor boy were short of material.

My cousin’s knees were providing their own percussion section.

She had expected prawns.

Being kind enough to come and check on me had somehow resulted in her being taken up a mountain and introduced to aerial transport.

Not, I suspect, what she meant by “It’ll be lovely to get away”.

Next year, she may send a card.

Fear, Apparently, Has Departments

Then came the journey back.

Gorgeous Beatrice had explained in detail how wonderful her parachute jump with Guillermo, her loving, adoring husband, had been.

The exhilaration! The breathtaking sensation! The sheer joy!

I listened, full of admiration.

Then the jeep hit a bump.

“¡AY! ¡NO! ¡PARA! ¡QUE ME BAJO!”

She wanted to get out.

Immediately.

Here was a woman who had willingly exited an aircraft but was now attempting to resign from a car journey.

Fear, apparently, has departments.

Beatrice negotiated with the driver, the road and the entire mountain.

We were miles from anywhere.

My concerns were concentrated slightly lower down.

Baby Frankenstein and the gym may be firming my bottom, but they have yet to install suspension.

Every bump introduced another part of my anatomy to the seat.

I attempted to elevate myself.

Hovering seemed sensible.

Unfortunately, my flying career had ended at the zip wire, and my thighs had received no advance notice of a second shift.

Unsuccessful is most definitely the conclusion you would reach.

A Day You Carry Home

By the time we returned, friendships had been forged, numbers exchanged and an adrenaline-junkie group practically formed.

We had gone out for an adventure and come back with a social circle.

Colourful Son had collected a cousin and acquired a family legend.

Nobody had got the quiet lunch.

Everybody had something to talk about.

And that is what stayed with me about Sunview Park: how much of a day you can carry home.

For something that felt so extraordinary, it was an affordable way to make a memory I’ll keep for years.

No flights to organise. No suitcase to sit on. No miniature shampoo negotiations.

Just somewhere on our doorstep that took us out of our routines and gave us something wonderful to share.

The views alone made me want to linger. The experience made me want to come back.

Gracie will be delighted.

A new jurisdiction.

If you fancy making your own memories, Sunview Park in Alhaurín de la Torre can be reached on +34 625 82 32 11, by telephone or WhatsApp. Have a chat with the team about the activities and what suits your group.

And perhaps explain the itinerary to your cousin.

Apparently, “We’re going out” lacks detail.

Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway

I came home feeling ready for action.

Lawyers? Doctors? Accountants?

Right. Who’s first?

I’ve been launched off a mountain by a cheerful man called Paco. Bring your paperwork.

Susan Jeffers wrote Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway decades ago. I followed it then, and I’m finding my way with it again now, enjoying each step of the occasionally terrifying journey.

Some days, doing it anyway means getting through an appointment.

Some days, walking into an office with a new idea.

And some days, it means letting your son see that underneath the worry, the upheaval and a frankly excessive amount of harness, his mother still wants to fly.

There is so much more to do in Spain, right here on our doorstep, than simply catching up over lunch and promising that next time we’ll do something different.

Mountains. Adventures. New friends. Entire afternoons you’ll still be laughing about next year.

You simply have to try it.

And if Colourful Son offers to collect you…

Ask which mountain.

Michel Doing Spain Solo 💋💋💋