I boarded the 06:30 flight from Glasgow Prestwick like a woman who had it all together - mainly because I didn't have to faff with airport parking. A kind family chauffeur (aka The MVP of the hen week I was going on) got me there in one piece, with just enough time for a pre-flight snack and a couple of “hydrating” beverages. Because nothing says I'm ready for take-off like rum, cider AND beer at sunrise.

We arrived in Gran Canaria feeling fresh(ish), breezed through customs and hopped onto our private transport to Axel Beach Maspalomas - our party HQ for the week. I travelled with only a backpack and a 10kg overhead case, because I am that woman now. Also, shout out to my new Flymax suitcase with 360° wheels, which glided through the airport like a dream and made me feel like I had my life together, even when I very much didn’t. 

This wasn’t just a holiday. Oh no. It was my family member’s hen week, which meant one thing: chaos. Beautiful, loud, sleep-deprived chaos. Every night we were out until the wee hours, sunbathing aggressively by day, drinking like it was a competitive sport, and eating like Burger King was doing us a personal favour.

Thanks to my usual water-chugging habits, I managed to dodge hangovers like a seasoned ninja. I became a semi-permanent fixture at Red Cow Bar and Shenanigans and I may have had a romantic entanglement with the Burger King menu. Our final few meals were at Mozart II and Mana 264.

On day two, we embarked on the ultimate pub crawl—a sort of sweaty pilgrimage through Sahara Beach Bar, The Tipsy Hammock, Mardi Gras, Sparkles, and more.

Midweek, in a moment of heroic delusion, I booked a hiking tour with Climbo. It included a trek to Roque Nublo, where I questioned every life decision that led to me climbing a mountain on 4 hours of sleep and two burgers. But the views? Stunning. The internal panic attacks? Mild. The sense of accomplishment? Massive. We also had a fancy fusion lunch and sampled cheese, marzipan, and mojo sauce from local traders—which helped distract from the fact that my thighs were staging a mutiny.

On Friday night, we took a cab to Puerto Rico (not that one) for a show at the Barbacoa Family Entertainment Centre—a surreal combo of cabaret and karaoke that could only be described as “family-friendly-ish.” Afterwards, we hit up Chez Funny Boys for a few last hurrahs.

Given that I’m a card-carrying member of the Low Energy Ladies Society, I think I held up surprisingly well. I was often the first to sneak back to the hotel, skipping the shot rounds like a true peri-warrior. My biggest struggle? Not the heat (hot flashes, meet hot climate—it’s a draw), but keeping track of my Medroxyprogesterone and Fluoxetine. Even with my trusty pill organiser, things went rogue. Turns out rum and sleep deprivation are natural enemies of medical routine.

Maspalomas, while globally known as the spot for LGBTQ+ revelry (and fabulousness in general), also has pockets of peace for a perimenopausal panicker like myself. Though—pro tip—pack a mini fan. Many bars and even some hotels are very relaxed about air conditioning, which is great if you enjoy lightly roasting from the inside out.

Now I’m home, trying to remember how sleep works and wondering why nobody is handing me a cocktail. But honestly? Would I do it all again? Absolutely. Just maybe with fewer shots... and more snacks that didn’t come in a paper wrapper.