Ah, 2021—the year we finally slapped a name on our floating home Sawasdeekat, and shoved her back into the water where she belonged. After months of noise, dust, and the kind of grime that makes you question all your life choices, it was a relief to see her bobbing peacefully in the water. Just in time, too, because my daughter Paris - professional singer, songwriter, all-around superstar (@parisadamsofficial, go follow her) - decided to grace me with her presence. Because nothing says "holiday" like watching your dad stress-sweat over boat repairs while humming “Jingle Bells” in November. 

2022: The Year That Laughed at Our Plans

If 2021 was the warm-up, 2022 was the marathon we didn’t train for. Three months into catamaran ownership, we’d already haemorrhaged enough cash to fund a small island nation. "Just a few more bits and bobs," we said, like naive little sailors who’d never met a marine supply store. Oh, how wrong we were. 

Enter Kenet, the baker-turned-boat-guide we met thanks to the ever-generous Krissy and Paul. (Side note: If you ever need introductions in Cartagena, find yourselves a Krissy and Paul. They’re like human LinkedIn.) Kenet, in a twist of fate, was a pastry chef—hilarious, because back in the UK, my wife Pookie was busy sweating over rounds in the MasterChef competition. The universe has a sense of humour, and it’s usually at our expense. 

The Great Sahara Dust Attack (And Other Boat Mishaps). Anyway, by early April, we returned to Sawasdeekat, only to find we needed more protection for our boat in the marina and so invested in some bigger fenders. In addition, she was absolutely filthy. Turns out, the Sahara Desert enjoys a good prank - specifically, hurling sand northward and depositing 90% of it directly onto our deck. The remaining 10%? Probably on some unlucky seagull. .

Inside wasn’t much better. Boats, when left unattended, apparently morph into damp, musty caves. So, we scrubbed, we sorted, and we played a thrilling game of Where Does the Freezer Go? Which I won (naturally) by declaring it should live in the forward starboard locker, right by Pookie’s bedroom. "You’ll love it," I said. "It’s next to the washing machine. Women love white goods, right?" (Reader, she did not find this as amusing as I did.) 

Algameca Chica: The Town That Laws Forgot

In between scrubbing, and freezer Tetris, I took Pookie to Algameca Chica, a fascinating little cove that looks like it was built by pirates who really didn’t care about permits.

Electricity? Generators. Water? A network of pipes that looked like they’d been assembled by a drunk plumber. Yet, somehow, 110 people call this place home, and in summer, you can even Airbnb a room here. (Five stars for ambience, one star for structural integrity.) 

The Maiden Voyage (Or: How to Rip a Sail in 10 Minutes)

By May, we’d befriended half the marina (mostly by smiling awkwardly and accepting free drinks). Kenet, ever the gentleman, took us out on his monohull for a BBQ and a swim in water so cold it could wake the dead.

Pookie, despite turning a delicate shade of green from seasickness, decided it was time Sawasdeekat had her first proper sail under new ownership. 

Two days later, we gathered a crew of seasoned sailors (and me, the guy who once got lost in a paddling pool). We motored out, raised the sails, and – BAM - immediately ripped the mainsail. Why? Because someone (okay, probably me) let a rogue rope tangle in the sail car. Lesson learned: Boats break faster than my will to live when I see the repair bill.   Undeterred, we motored to the cove, where Pookie and Kenet—the dream team of pastry and panic—cooked up a feast so good it almost made us forget the sail incident. Almost. 

Semana Santa: Easter, But Make It Dramatic

We stuck around long enough to witness Semana Santa, Spain’s answer to Easter—except instead of chocolate eggs, you get solemn processions and enough religious fervour to make a bunny rabbit blush.

It’s a week-long spectacle of devotion, and Cartagena does it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for telenovelas. 

Meanwhile, back in the UK, MasterChef had turned Pookie into a minor celebrity. Her gasp of "Oooh, steamed up!" became the show’s tagline, and suddenly she was fielding calls from newspapers and radio stations while perched on the docks in Cartagena like a culinary Oprah. 

The Pookiestyle Takeover

Pookie, now fully possessed by the spirit of Gordon Ramsay, spent every waking moment cooking. Spanish markets became her playground, and our boat’s kitchen (such as it was) churned out dishes at an alarming rate. I’m not exaggerating when I say I gained 10 pounds just looking at her food. 

But alas, all good things must end. By late April, Pookie jetted off for TV appearances, leaving me alone in Cartagena with only our neighbour’s giant drop-down TV for company. (Bless that man and his love of oversized electronics.) 

Pookie’s UK Takeover: From Seaham to Mayfair (With a Side of MasterChef Mayhem)

While Sawasdeekat sat patiently (and expensively) in Cartagena, Pookie was busy turning the UK into her own personal Great British Menu audition. Thanks to MasterChef, she’d gone from "home cook" to "minor culinary celebrity" faster than you can say "Where’s the nearest fire extinguisher?" 

First stop: food shows. Not just any food shows - glorious, chaotic, butter-scented extravaganzas in places like Seaham, Lichfield, and Birmingham. Picture Pookie, armed with a spatula and boundless enthusiasm, demonstrating her signature "Pookiestyle" dishes to crowds who probably thought they were just there for a free sample. Joke’s on them—they left with life-changing flavour revelations and possibly a new addiction to her spice blends. 

But the real pièce de résistance? A restaurant takeover in Mayfair. Yes, that Mayfair. The kind of place where the napkins cost more than my first car. Pookie waltzed in, turned the kitchen upside down, and left London’s foodies whispering, "Who is this woman, and why is her Tom Yum Fruitti di Mare making me cry?" (Happy tears, obviously. No one sends back a dish that good.)  Their takings apparently more than doubled that night.

The MasterChef Reunion: Eight Contestants, One Kitchen, Zero Sanity (With Bonus Wine for the Cameraman)

While Sawasdeekat floated patiently in Spain, Pookie was turning our Solihull kitchen into a MasterChef satellite studio. Forget dinner parties - we went full "let’s-invite-eight-contestants-over-one-by-one-and-film-them-cooking-like-maniacs" mode. 

Here’s how it went down: 

1. The Concept: One contestant at a time (including the legendary Eddie, who went on to win), would arrive at our place. 

2. The Setup: Pookie played host/co-conspirator, I manned the camera (and the wine glass), and each guest unleashed their signature dish on YouTube. 

3. The Chaos: Imagine eight different cooking styles, eight different levels of kitchen panic, and one increasingly tipsy cameraman (me) yelling “That’s a great shot! But wait, was the lens cap on?” 

By the end, we had: 

8 YouTube videos of culinary brilliance (and bloopers). 

A fridge full of leftovers that fed us for days. 

A newfound respect for how much work goes into those "15-minute meal" videos. 

The best part? Watching these incredibly talented people - who’d spent weeks competing against each other - bond with us and each other over food. It was like Come Dine With Me, but with better plating and significantly fewer passive-aggressive voiceovers. 

The Aftermath: Full Bellies, Empty Wine Cellars

By the time the last pan was scrubbed and the final guest had rolled themselves out the door, two things were clear: 

1. Pookie was unstoppable. Between food shows, restaurant takeovers, numerous VIP invitations to places like the Thai Embassy, and hosting MasterChef royalty, she’d officially entered her "culinary superhero" era. 

2. Our house smelled incredible for weeks. (Also, our wine rack had mysteriously depleted. Coincidence? I think not.) 

2022 became a blur of back-and-forth—UK for Pookie’s food shows, Spain for boat repairs, repeat. We threw parties, we saw friends, we pretended we had control over our lives. And just when we thought we’d never escape the chaos, September arrived - the month we finally, finally set sail on our real adventure. 

But that, dear reader, is a tale for next time. Stay tuned for "We Actually Left the Marina (And Immediately questioned our life choices)."

TL;DR: Boats are expensive, dust is relentless, and Pookie cooked her way across the UK, and hosted many MasterChef parties that left us all fat and happy.