Blog: It’s 9am on Saturday and we’re stuck at Faro airport on the Algarve, writes John Simcock.

And, to be blunt, we’re going nowhere. Very slowly.

We – myself, wife Sharon and children Jack and Holly – were due to fly back to Birmingham this morning after a week’s break.

That clearly is not going to happen.

In fact, we’ve just been told the best we can hope for is a flight this time next week.

Brilliant, you say, an extra week of holiday.

Only it’s not quite like that. There is all the stress of the children missing a week of school, both Sharon and I taking an unscheduled week off work and rearranging appointments and meetings and the day-to-day minutiae of home life to reorganise (the dog was due at the vets, the chimney sweep was coming, the veg garden needs sorting, the list is endless. …)

On top of that we’ve still to find out where we will be staying or what the accommodation will be like.

Still, these are minor considerations compared to the thought of our plane hurtling headlong into a cloud of Iceland’s best quality volcanic ash.

And that seems to be way most people here are viewing the situation.

There is a tangible feeling of the old Blitz spirit in the air (about the only thing which is) and everyone seems determined to make the best of a bad job.

I reckon there must be the best part of 1,000 people in the queue here and so far I have not heard a single complaint, although Jack is a little annoyed that he just failed to complete a new level on his Star Wars Lego PSP game.

That is to the credit of everyone here and the good humour of all the airport staff working so hard to sort out this mess.

Let’s hope when all this is over it’s one lesson we don’t forget.