Jamaica

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Technically Jamaica wasn’t our official honeymoon. It was more a lets keep Rachel happy, away from the grey skies, cold mornings, and January hump she is yet to master in her twenty six years of living, type of holiday.

And you’re right. I didΒ deserve it.

Our actual honeymoon will be in May, when we will be saying Au Revoir to America with two weeks driving and pit stopping along the West Coast.

However, luckily I have taught Ian to love a beach holiday as much as I do, so it wasn’t too hard to persuade him to squeeze in some winter sun.

We opted for Jamaica, because that’s where the best deals seemed to be this time of year. Plus, our bank balance laughed hysterically in our faces at our original choice of St. Lucia.

Who knew you can’t get a private hot tub, pool, and beach, complete with butler service on a budget? No matter how many times you refresh Expedia.

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We were in Jamaica for four full days, with the other two mostly spent travelling. So our plan was to make the most of our short time there, relaxing in the sun; a glass of prosecco in one hand, and a good book in the other. And hopefully a burger on it’s way to me, someway or another. Which worked out perfectly, as Melia Braco Village, was the perfect place to do just that.

As the name suggests, the resort felt like you were staying in a small village. With apartment style rooms, five seperate restaurants, a modern bar, night club, and a good size pool.

After a 3am wake up call, and a long day of travelling, we were welcomed at check in with the resort signature drink. Where we were given a quick run through of our stay, followed by a lift to our lovely room, overlooking the sandy beach and clear sea. Which was perfect, since within thirty seconds of being left on our own, we locked ourselves out on the balcony…

And with views like this you would think that is no problem, but when you have to call down to the restaurant below for help, it all gets a bit embarrassing.

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I think for most people, and definitely for us, a big part of a holiday is the food. We enjoy food, and going out for meals, and on holiday, you get to do this every. single. day.

However, one thing I often don’t like about all inclusive is the daily buffet. The ones that serve the same monstrous amounts of food every night, where you get so overwhelmed, that you end up putting chocolate sprinkles on your lamb chop in a food panic.

And you never actually sit down long enough with the person you’re with to have a real conversation, because FOOD IS EVERYWHERE, AND WE MUST EAT IT ALL RIGHT NOW.

This is one of the reasons I try to avoid staying at huge resorts, and partly why we chose Melia Village. It is a small resort with just over 200 rooms, and in addition to the usual buffet, they also have a steak, Italian, and Asian restaurant, with a la carte menu’s. And most importantly the food was really good.

During the day, the jerk chicken and pork from theΒ daily BBQ was without a doubt our favourite. And on the evening, the steak restaurant was always in high demand, and the portion sizes were pretty darn impressive.

However I was often still full by the time it got to the evening meal, due to my three plates of food each morning, because one type of buffet I am A-OK with, is breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup is my holiday thaaang.

As well as bread, cheese, burgers, chips…

But pancakes win each time. However I like to restrict this breakfast to holidays only. Just like I try to restrict my visits to Cheesecake Factory once every three months.

March I’m comin’ for ya.

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As well as excellent food, there were water sports to take part in, local days out, as well as evening entertainment. Including a very impressive steel band that had the whole resort watching, as well as a huge street party on the Friday night.

Between sizzling in the sun, and putting on five stone, we snorkelled, kayaked, played basketball, as well as the odd board game by the pool.

And before we knew it, it was time to go home where we were bitch slapped back to reality with a thirty minute visa check, followed by a delayed flight, a marathon run between terminals to catch our connecting flight, WITH all our bags, only to be sent to the wrong gate. Cue second run.

And finally we were back home, and greeted by a dead mouse on the door step.

Yay, Philadelphia.

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