As we boarded the Aberdeen to Edinburgh train last week, armed with disinfectant wipes and mini bottles of hand gels, I couldn’t help but think we were being overly cautious.
Coronavirus had been making and shaking the news before my mum and I headed to Spain for some winter sun, and I was well aware of the impact it was having in places like Italy, but naively I thought all would be well.
There had been reported cases in both Madrid and Barcelona, where we were heading for a fortnight, but nothing I considered more significant than any other European city.
I was not prepared for the speed at which events escalated.
The busy flight out to the Spanish capital on March 7 was fairly standard, with jovial groups of stag parties and holiday makers entertaining us through delays, and we soon arrived at the city centre flat in which we would spend the next week.
There was the buzz of nightlife and activity below and that evening we wandered the narrow streets, filled with bustling independent restaurants, struggling to choose where to eat.
Most were full and when we eventually settled on one, we were told we were lucky to get a space.
The next few days were similar to any other in a busy European city in March – not the crowds you’d experience in the night of the summer, but Plaza Mayor was always a hive of activity.
But I had been keeping up with the latest on Coronavirus and it was obvious things were escalating.
When we decided to go visit Museo National del Prado on March 10, I knew things were heating up.
No queues, we walked straight in and round all of Goya and Velazquez in record time.
Those who were working in the museum had started to wear gloves and masks and every cough and sneeze had people on edge.
After we finished our tour, we headed up the hill to Retiro park and I couldn’t help but notice how quiet the streets were.
When we decided to go exploring the shops on Wednesday I knew we were going to have to cut our holiday short.
At points we were the only customers in some of the landmark buildings on Gran Via and when we were accompanied by other shoppers they were shrouded in masks.
It was soon announced that all museums, as well as schools and universities, would be shutting their doors.
After a call to my dad back home we agreed we would give Barcelona a miss and booked flights home for the Saturday.
We spent most our final day on the terrace, self-isolating, enjoying 22C, but with a complete absence of hustle and bustle below.
What shops remained open were empty or queued out the door with people panic buying.
That evening we went for a last supper and spoke to the owner, who said they had been told that from Saturday the city would be on lock-down.
Nothing was to open for at least two weeks, but in his opinion he thought it would be months before they reopened – if they ever would.
The next morning we headed to the airport and as we rolled our suitcases down the once busy shopping street we were probably the only people to be seen.
Never in my life have I seen a capital city deserted.
The airport was also eerily quiet and masks were the norm.
We reached home, but the plane was almost empty, and I think it’s fair to say I may have been on the last flight out.
It’s clear the effects of Covid-19 are only just starting and its significance, and the speed at which it’s developing, shouldn’t be underestimated in the way I did only a week ago.
