It started off as such a good idea. We had just moved house and the builders had thoughtfully provided a fitted barbecue area to the back terrace of our new property. All it really needed was a wire tray and charcoal. I have to confess that I am not a lover of the traditional barbecue. As a Cub Scout I could never see the point of rubbing two sticks together when I already had a cigarette lighter in totally my back pocket, which is why I never became a true Boy Scout. I guess I missed the point of the exercise. Over many summers in the UK, I tolerated clouds of black smoke making its way across my garden fence as yet another barbecue virgin was set to ruin my weekend in the garden. In Gran Canaria, my issue is with barbecued fish – it really is the most disgusting smell if you don’t happen to like fish – or badly operated barbecues for that matter.

What the barbecue virgins don’t seem to realise is that charcoal has to get hot, really hot and glow red before you even attempt to cook food. I have witnessed barbecue virgins trying to get the thing to light with firelighters, paraffin or worse. I have watched with horror as other barbecue virgins throw hunks of flesh onto barely warmed cinders in a determined effort to get food poisoning. No, I just could not tolerate charcoal. Personally, I would have been more than happy with an all electric barbecue - just as long as it was quick, clean and cooked the food. I was told that this would be a barbecue travesty and an insult to all ‘barbequers’ worldwide and that my neighbours in Gran Canaria would never speak to me again if I did. In the end, I decided to settle for bottled gas.

I searched the island high and low. From Las Palmas to Puerto Rico and from San Nicolas to Arinaga – there were no gas barbecues suitable for the brick-built creation on the patio. It was then that I hit upon the idea of checking the Argos website. They usually have everything. Perfect, I found a superb gas unit – exactly the right size and priced at only 79.99 pounds. I was returning to the UK for a brief visit, so I checked to see that they had them in stock. I reserved one to collect from a store near the airport. It would easily be accepted as hand luggage on the return flight…

I handed over my credit card to the young woman at the Argos desk and eventually my number appeared on the collections board. Before my eyes, a large cardboard box appeared on the conveyor belt. The young man struggled to lift it and placed in on the counter. I checked the catalogue number on the box – yes, it was my barbecue. I struggled to lift it and carry it to the car. I began to imagine the scenario ahead of me. Certainly, this wasn’t the stuff of hand luggage. Should I just cut and run and maybe leave it behind in the store? No, I really did want the new barbecue, but why was it so heavy?

I always admire those passengers who are able to travel light, look well dressed throughout their visit and smell relatively fresh at the end of it. I have never been able to achieve this. Try as I may, my wash bag alone is usually the entire luggage allowance allocated by airlines such Ryanair and Easyjet. I wheeled my trolley to the check in desk and I knew exactly what was going to come. “Bit overweight are we today, Sir?” commented the grinning, spotty youth on the check in desk. This was no doubt a well-planned line reserved for his more errant passengers. I was neither amused nor in a mood for a lengthy discussion as to why he had referred to me in the plural. I smiled benignly and muttered something about Christmas presents. “That will be 195 pounds to pay, Sir”. No, he didn’t really say that, did he? I thought it would be about fifty quid, not nearly two hundred just to get an eighty-pound barbecue to Madrid! Should I leave the wretched thing with the spotty youth and cut my losses? No, I really did want the barbecue. Reluctantly I handed over my credit card. “Have a good flight”, chanted the youth whose endless grinning had suddenly become a major irritation.

The arrival in Madrid airport was going to be a big problem. First, I had to track down the barbecue and ensure that it hadn’t been damaged and then somehow drag it and the rest of the luggage to another check in desk to the other side of the airport for the flight to Gran Canaria. The dreadful truth dawned. I had paid for the barbecue to be transported to Madrid and not to Gran Canaria. I would have to go though all this expense yet again! Perhaps they wouldn’t notice…

The young lady at the airline desk couldn’t have been more helpful. “I will have to charge you for your excess baggage, “she said with a charming smile. “You are very much overweight. Take this ticket to my colleague over there, pay her and then return here. You will have to take your luggage with you though”, she added as an afterthought. I struggled across to another young woman at another desk, dragging two large suitcases and the barbecue that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. She looked at the ticket and then my luggage. Fortunately, she spoke very good English, “I will charge you only a quarter of the cost to help you”, she said, “That will be eight hundred euros”. Those words fell heavily on my ears. Eight hundred euros for an eighty quid barbecue. Where was it all going to end? Did I have enough spare funds on my card? I suddenly felt very hot and rather sick. “Did you say eight hundred euros, but you said you were going to charge me a quarter of the charge,” I protested. “Did I?” she said. “No, no, that was my bad English – I mean eighty euros”. I handed over my card, checked in the luggage and fled to the nearest bar for a very large brandy.

As I type this, the new barbecue is heating up on the terrace. It fits well and cooks perfectly. Did I mention the reason for the unit being so heavy? It was because the cooking plates and grill were cast iron!

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© Barrie Mahoney 2026