Chocolat

Monday morning.
Bright, sunny, bit of cumulus here and there
North easterly, right into the balcony, a joile brise, as they'd say up north.
Never been here in a NEly before.
A proper change of direction and thoughts of Chocolat. Not the brown stuff but the film.
Time for a change.
Time to make a move.
Time to go home.

No shopping to do bar a card for "Loli" and some flowers to leave on the table but that's for tomorrow. Just slung the last of the fridge fodder in the frying pan, half a bottle of tomato frito, a drop of red and simmered it for a while. Leave if for a few hours to develop or whatever it is that food does. Another variation on the slop my spectacle providing sister showed me years ago. No chili sauce, though.
All that's left to do is the spaghetti tonight and that's the cooking finished.

Wandering aimlessly about town, apart from card shopping, where the farmacia signs were pretty much agreed on 14 we thought of ending our sojourn with a full on sit down restaurant meal tomorrow night.

Down along the prom there are various restaurants, none of the local ones open in the evenings yet and the others seem to display north European languages and photos of their offerings. It is a principle that we only rarely dispense with that if a restaurant needs photos of their food we'll pass. Besides, buergeurs, one of umpteen spellings on a board with bingo and beer is not really our sort of place for a last night out.

Exactly what we were looking for

There is an Italian which we thought of last year (but ended up in Alicante instead) which we considered as our only option. Mainly because it is.

Tuesday Closed for rest

We made our way there, hesitated at the market as it has a kind of magnetism that is hard to resist, and consulted the menu behind a glass screen.

Offerings, excellent, price, reasonable, opening times, convenient.

Hang on, Lunes, Mericoles, Jeuves, Viernes, Sabbado, Domingo. Where's Martes?

North easterly winds of change.
Yup, time to go.

Flashing blades, lasers and an optimist, or two....

An incomplete Sunday, not a bad one, though.

I had breakfast on the balcony and watched carefully but she didn't show up.
I drank my freshly squeezed orange on the balcony and watched carefully, camera ready but she didn't show up.
I had my morning coffees on the balcony and watched carefully but she didn't show up.
We paddled the whole length of the beach and back but the surfer dudette didn't show up.

She must have been aware that there was more surf this Sunday than on any of the others that she's been here for as this photo proves. It might not be much but it looks good.

However, it was a no show and it may have been my fault as I must confess that in view of the deserted seafront and glorious sunshine I was taking breakfast in my boxers before the fact was pointed out to me causing a most undignified rush for the shorts.

However, the paddle was undertaken by the pair of us along the whole length of a pretty much deserted beach. The return leg was shared by a few anglers, kids and adults, a very serious looking hiker lady and one or two joggers who were obviously late.

It was so quiet that as we approached Club Nautic the only noise heard above the gently moving surf  and sand was the high pitched babble emanating from excited and enthusiastic youngsters in lasers, kayaks and optimists.
Exactly as it ought to be.
I do hope that they realise what they've got here.

We still have to keep reminding ourselves that it is February. 

This time next week the shorts will be in their drawer and unlikely to see the light of day till May, or June. Can't complain, I suppose.

Bet I will, though.

Mind games

Sometimes you just know something's not right.

Last night late, well, an hour later than in UK I watched the rugby. The trouble is that nowadays we have a very, very close association with that Principality and yet, I'm sorry, but I was so pleased with the result. I'd have been pleased whoever was playing as long as them what lost last night lost again.

It still didn't feel right, though. Not enough to feel any sorrow or guilt, it was the right result and had the referee enough courage to go with his first decision it would have been even better. He was French though, so what else would you expect?

It wasn't until crossing the road barefoot in shirt sleeves and shorts to paddle the length of the beach and back that the "wrongness" of it all became clear. I associate the internationals with cold, wet and wind. Every time I've watched them the most important preparations to make have been to fill the coal bucket and stack some wood so that all is ready. Watching last night with a balcony door ajar listening to the gentle wash of water on sand just wasn't right.

Paddling along a beach for an hour or two before another match taking place a few miles east of us in the rain seems very strange indeed. Inevitable result, I guess but another match is about to start and I'm not really bothered about the result as there's drop of white to finish and a bottle of red to open. Opened.

Paddling along the beach late this morning the big Guardia Civil boat came along and began exercising with her rib, a bit of pacing but ever so slowly, then a bit of towing, again not in any haste, but one of the thoughts I had whilst watching was that with weather as nice as this why would you bother employing haste?

I seem to remember doing exercises like that but it was always dark, cold, wet, windy and even when it was daylight it wasn't like this.

The other thought I had was this.

Would I ever cheer for the principality? Could I do it?

I concluded that if the World Cup Final was being played by them against Argentina then I might.

Unless the RFU decided to present the cup to the winners and invited Andy Willman and the Top Gear team to do the presentation. Then I'd root for the Argentines. You'd have to, wouldn't you?

Perhaps they would make commemorative scarves with H982FKL accidentally emblazoned on them.

I bet the scarf makers would earn a fortune.
Probably wouldn't go down too well on the other side of the bridge, though.

Best time of day

If  you're a jogger then  first thing in the morning before non joggers are up is best. After this you may get noticed and I can't imaging that's much fun, eh?

For some of us mornings are the times when one's consciousness gradually becomes self aware in direct proportion to the decency of the coffee available. At home the Gaggia and La Pavoni grinder ensure a reasonably swift transition twixt unconsciousness and alive if not alert. Here we have some half decent coffee, already ground and vacuum packed which is filtered and although it's rather nice it doesn't deliver the kick that the real thing does.

However, no worries. I can do shoppering and carry bags without totally being aware of my actions, as long as I do what I'm told it's OK. By lunchtime I'm there, the next few hours of the day are as good as it's likely to get which is very appropriate as the fleet returns between 1500 and 1700. This year with an iPad AIS has given a heads up and the binoculars on the balcony confirm the imminent arrivals so the walk down the harbour is timed to perfection. Always. Good, eh?

Friday sees the fleet's arrival earlier than weekdays as once landed they wash down properly. Fairy liquid liberally spread, deckwashes pushing all the bits through the scuppers, well used brooms doing the gantry, wheelhouse and anything higher than an arm's stretch and buckets of soapy water and rags doing the hull down to the waterline. Like I said a proper washdown.

Much good natured cranting about is in evidence and although I don't understand a word apart from when they don't like to see foreigners around, it's not difficult to understand the gist of what's going on.

Today they came alongside in dribs and drabs. There  was nowhere near as much fish as "usual" and I did my best to look sorry and empathise but I probably didn't try as hard as I might .



Being left alone I was able to watch to my heart's content, loiter with no intent whatsoever and just watch and take photos.

Last year I had a proper camera with me and every time I lifted it to my eye it was made clear to me that I oughtn't do that. No words but backs turned, young deck hands with deckwash hoses hesitating in their traverse of the deck they were washing and adjacent shoulders closing. With this new gem of a camera no one seems to notice and when they do they smile and one today showed off his t-shirt with an English slogan emblazoned across it. I think it had been worn for a while.

Good natured tolerance of this foreigner with the inane smile was gratefully acknowledged as best it could be with a wave here, a nod there, a gracias, a hola buenos tardes help too. I wish I knew what "any chance of a trip?" is in Spanish. Too late now, though.

Once alongside the gear is stowed and the fish sorted. They all sit aft around the pile of fish and sorting begins. One or two arrange the boxes and stop the octopus escaping, re-sort fish that end up in the wrong box.

It doesn't take long as most of these boats have seven or eight hands and they don't gut any of the catch. Of course, a tribe of "old blokes" leave the net mending to come along to watch, sit and yarn as they too lend a hand. Lots of octopus chasing does have it's amusing moments.

When I was a kid we caught monk and some you could put a two gallon bucket in their mouth. They land monk here that could be put comfortably in a Swan Vesta box.

This photo shows the start of sorting, crabs you would put back in the mulley pool and look at the monk who's tail overhangs the deckwash hose! That's not a small one by these standards, either.

In no time at all these boxes are full and eventually 20-30 are put ashore and taken on a trolley to the market into which I can not go. I have tried and failed without a word being spoken.

Last week there would have been 30-50 boxes, maybe many more especially from the bigger 25m boats, next week there probably will be again but for now the landings are down by 30% according to the local paper and the fishermen have lost over €500 a boat since the "storms" of last week. I jest not, the local (English translation) paper says so.

I do try to feel sorry, really, I do but there's no tide so they work office hours, they have shelter decks but it's mostly a shelter from sunshine and if last week's "storm" was enough to keep them in last Friday and Monday (they stay ashore Saturday and Sunday anyway) I'd worry if any of them ever seen some of the poor weather that get's worked in from Brixham, Newlyn or anywhere else above 50⁰N. Even the Frenchmen know about poor weather and I guess that these men do as well.

It's just relative values of "poor" isn't it?

Come Wednesday and we'll know all about poor weather again, too.
Not many more glasses on the balcony I'm afraid.

Can't wait.


Couldn't ever have taken these with my Canon, though. So chuffed with the new camera, just don't mention batteries .....

Gloop, slop and half a century

Over half a century ago there was a skiff in the harbour with my first names on the name board, it wasn't mine it was Da's and I learned to row in it. It was big, for a skiff, old and heavy with paddles bigger than me and which I could row with if all went well. If it didn't I was better at scullying anyway.

When waiting for the tide to float her there was a pointless ritual that we all undertook because when time rushes by like treacle you always want to speed it up as best you can. So you'd get aboard and cast off long before the tide got to you and you'd sit yarning to the rest but as soon as the water got to the keel you were up on the stern thwart, toe against the name board and you stood leaning for all you were worth on the paddle. The fact that dry(ish) sand was all around, that it took two or three inches before she'd move, another inch or two to lift upright and then another to actually float was inconsequential. I must have added milliseconds to my life afloat by leaning on a paddle trying to be away before the tide allowed.

It was only on nice days that you were allowed to take the skiff so it was always fine weather when you did. What I remember most is the noise. It started with a "gloop" followed by a "slop" under the transom as the merest ripples ran from stern to bow. As they went under the bilge the final volume open to them was far less than they themselves so they'd run upwards and make a "gloop" sound at that point momentum would be lost and they'd fall back on themselves and make a "slop" that would be heard as the water ran away till it all happened again.

It only happened for a short while as the tide didn't hang about, apart from neaps but they were midday tides so you'd have shoved out anyway. There are a few places where the rocks are so arranged that gloop and slop can be heard, too. There's a place down the cove, the Island side of  'meor, Crab Rock and down 'widden just after low water where the very same sounds can be heard but only at certain times and in calm, benign weather. Usually the afternoons of summer days and springs.

I spent ages sitting on rocks listening to "gloop" and "slop" when I was a kid. Vacant hours, idle times and no regrets. I can't ever remember thinking about anything or doing anything but listening and then moving as such times are fleeting as tide doesn't hang about.

The soundtrack that matters. You'll either get it or you won't!

Not so in The Mediterranean. Today I sat on a rock and there it was the unmistakable "gloop" and "slop" and there was I over half a century ago sitting in a skiff with nothing better to do than sit, watch, listen and wait. In the Mediterranean, however, there is no tide to speak of so there is no reason to move until a glance to the right reminds you that in the past half a century a lot has happened and you may only be a few feet away in space but explaining that you're well over fifty years away in time is far more difficult than getting up and moving on.

There is much to occupy the mind half a century and more later, too. Reflecting on our visit this morning from the house owner who rather wonderfully came along with her English friend to see if all was well, if anything could be improved and to let us know that our deposit will be returned.

Everything is wonderful. Too good, really, better than I deserve at least so could we book it for next enero/febrero?
Non!
Already booked. For six months all next winter.
Someone is a very wise person, I think, well done them.

The view from where I sit whilst tapping these laptop keys.

The problem is what do we do? Last year's place was a bit dire, we knew no better but we do now and this place is perfect for us. It has all we need and what we want. Any more would be superfluous, any less a disappointment. To book another place and wander by this balcony when occupied by others would not be good, unless, of course we booked a mansion but we don't want a mansion. All we want is this and it's not available.

The prospect of a enero/febrero in GB, especially now I've found a significant rock to sit on is unthinkable. I shall therefore give up thinking and allow management free reign.  She's already on the case, I just looked over her shoulder as she sat on the balcony with the iPad.

She was looking at some place called "Malta".
Does anyone know if that's got a rock you can sit on which "gloops" and "slops"?
Has it got places with a sun bathed balcony a few steps from the deepest blue Mediterranean from which you can watch proper boats coming and going?

Change?
How will I cope?

I suppose that like the tide I'll just go with it and try to find another place where "gloop" and "slop" can supply the soundtrack for a few more weeks of my life.

Beaten, twice but seeing clearly now.

"Ping"
"What was that?"
"Your door must be open."
"It isn't"
"Ping"
"Must be yours"
"S'not mine"
"You've left the handbrake on"
"No I haven't"
"Ping"
"What is it then?"
"Dunno"
"Ping"

Without reading glasses the dash of an unfamiliar car is a mysterious place of mostly obscure colours and shapes but on this occasion it was snowing. There was a snowflake bobbling about on the dash where the temperature was meant to be . The temperature had all gone and there was just this snowflake. And the intermittent "ping" of annoyance.

Broken bottles aside, the day had begun well, the decision had been jointly taken to head inland past the reservoir and through the mountains to the main road where we would turn right, visit el Castell de Gaudalest and then on to Voldemort to return the Polo.

Initially all was well until the "Ping" began. It didn't ping a lot after it's initial  manifestation but it was annoying when it did. After the empty reservoir complete with ruined houses, roads and bridges that ought to have been submerged we carried on. Inexorably uphill, the corners ever tightening, the distance between them shortening, the camber at the apex being supported by rather deep ditches that looked infinitely preferable to what lay outside them, which generally wasn't much. But it was a left hand drive car.

My navigator was providing the usual detritus of navigation, don't go any closer to the edge, look out there's a frozen cyclist, mind the van and then it's snowing. Which it was. The dashboard snowflake had been replaced by a number with a minus sign in front of it and there was real snow outside although it was missing the wipers and loitering at the edges of the screen.

Now the iPad, not wishing to be left out, began it's own annoying diatribe, keep on this road for another 18kms..... Stupid thing. Having just raised the seat squab and made the seat back a touch more vertical all I wanted to hear was ..... HPR, don't cut ditch, 40 HPL stay out armco, 30 tight R into very tight L don't cut , steep uphill HPR into steeper 50 into tight L into open R 30 into adv camber HPR .......

Instead all I got was threats of homelessness, poverty, loneliness and solicitors unless we turned round and went back. Now just where do you turn on a narrow, ever ascending sinuous becoming tortuous mountain road in visibility in which even a radar would fail to be of any use?

Well, here. There seemed no where else and even turning here undertaken with obscene amounts of care as visions of being hung up a tree were not too far wide of the mark. I'd tried reasoning but had to give in.

It is a fact though, that going uphill in these conditions is much easier than going down but the task was undertaken with due diligence helped by the fact that until the Finestrat junction we saw no other traffic.

Finestrat. Another Spanish town, planning department run by five year olds, decoration by teenagers. Didn't stop.

Roundabouts and civilisation and then more uphillness and eventually el Castell de Guadalest. Google it. It is well worth a visit. Indeed, we were even verging on parting with €8 to enter the Castell itself but were made aware of the imminent arrival of a Benidorm busfull of geriatric Germans so we settled for a wall wander and wonder. I tried out the new cameras panoramic mode and then we became the sole objects of attention in a coffee shop which was nice for a while.

Having been quietly quiet, and not best disposed to having had to beat a retreat earlier in the face of a few snowflakes it was mooted that with the sun shining we could travel the same road from the other direction. It did look spectacular and so it was.

Eventually we turned off the main road to traverse the mountain range and it was great. Seat back a little more upright, a lightness of touch on the thickish VW wheel and off we went. Upwards, ever upwards and we'd already started quite a way up.

Geography is not a strange thing to me really, and had I been thinking geographically instead of like a Carlos I may have given a moment's thought to the fact that we were going north to south and even I know that there's some places the sun doesn't shine.

Initially, the exhilaration of a car that handled so much better than a Jazz with gears that could be selected and hung on to or downshifted as appropriate was just so much fun, the concentration was immense, so much so that the quietness which had taken on an unnatural quality was completely unnoticed as our ascent progressed in ever tightening lines.


This continued right up to the point at which the gentle acceleration out of a particularly tight hairpin resulted in the graceful sweep of both tachometer and speedometer. The scenery, however, was resolutely stationary. Progress was at right angles to the direction of travel. Straightening the wheel elicited a slightly forward movement followed by a bit of a lurch and the next corner was already halfway negotiated. Backing off was not really an option as one had to go somewhere so we slipped and slithered upwards at a rate that was shameful but the best I could do to maintain movement in part within the parameters of my choice. Just keeping going was my main desire as the white lines had gone, the edges were indistinct and there was that silence that you only get when on ice.

It was about now that the "Ping"was noticed by me although I think it may have been noticeable much earlier.

As soon as the opportunity presented itself we managed to end up facing downwards and the decision was made to carry on in that general direction. As we again approached the relative safety of the main road a voice told me that we were going to return the car by the mainest of main roads and as soon as we could. It wasn't the iPad talking.

Upon arrival the EuropCar man delighted us with the news that yesterday's little excitement was sorted, our deposit had already been refunded and that was that. Between us relief and hunger were somewhat characteristically felt but each was sorted by a meal out. MacBurger and chips with half a gallon of orange Fanta. I didn't want any ice but couldn't read the menu.

So, a kind of a grand day out. Beaten by both sides of a mountain pass and the tram ride home was so unspeakably boring but at least we arrived in time to get a bottle of San Miguel, now at it's normal price and the pan shop lady had a lonely looking nananothinginnitnothingonit cake also at it's normal price.

Getting back to the front door and the day was done but there was a package in the letterbox with me on it. I didn't believe it but the management assured me it was and carefully she undertook the opening of it, after assessing the quality of the very posh M&S jiffy bag, the bold black addressing all the time wondering who knew our address.

I can tell you that this blog has been written so much easier for having a proper pair of +2.0 glasses, just what I needed, sitting here, typing in complete silence on the laptop as the iPad is assiduously read just over there ...... and we haven't had tea either ....

I don't think that now would be a good time to mention it, though.

Who knows what wonders tomorrow will bring forth, eh?

So near and yet, far too close

Each year we used to go to Formentera and each year we were there when the Real Nautic Club Calp yacht club raced their vessels into La Savina. We never saw them leave as we flew on the Saturday but their arrival was heralded with posters, placed the night before, (some) copies of which I have and the assemblage of the biggest BBQ likely seen on La Savina harbour side. Indeed, one of my most vivid memories is of the year we had our accident when I was thoroughly drugged up and suffering from severe gravel rash lying in a stupor listening to their joyful celebrations outside.

Today we visited Real Nautic Club Calp. It was quite a flash yacht club, lots of glass, brass and signage which made it stand out in quite an ordinary place. We took coffee in "Dracula", good coffee, lousy graphics just across the road next to the man with the angle grinder cutting slabs and realised that most Spanish seaside towns are merely ill advised agglomerations of BTEC practical/GCSE coursework buildings of poor taste and worse form. Functionally they stand but one considers that to be an accidental result of pouring concrete so quickly that it finds it's own verticals.



It was good to see whence those yachts came and better still to move on as one can do with an immaculate VW Golf Polo, hired from Europcar, Voldemort, for three days and €60. Moving on would have been great but for a Spanish lady who deemed her Audi would be better stopped by the rear wheel arch of a hired Polo than stopping at the junction's give way sign through Vorsprung duh Technic, or whatever. I think she was on the phone at the time but the Polo did stop her quite successfully. She seemed quite contrite but seeing as I was too busy pointing and shooting the words went whoosh. We filled in forms, listened, made noises and eventually left the scene a trifle dazed and confused.

Once again the management had methodically appraised the situation and found an English translation of said form which had she mentioned it earlier may have saved a not inconsiderable amount of shouting and even more anguished arm waving and camera pointing.

What my manager did mention was the fact that on Spanish accident forms, carried by all and filled out as and when, there's a box which you tick if it's you fault. This the white Audi lady had ticked so I was mollified, pacified and encouraged to get in the car and drive on .... on the right, the right, the RIGHT!

The rear wheel arch was somewhat the worse for wear, the wheel scored and grazed, the tyre slightly wounded but in all respects still serviceable, especially when compared to many other vehicles one casually notices and raises one's eyebrows at.

A few very gentle miles of ear straining and lighter that usual movements of steering, brakes and throttle failed to find cause for concern so pressing on with plan "A" was deemed "do-age".

Just as well. If there's a harbour you have to walk all round it, if a quay down it to the very end, if a point it has to be stood on.  Cap De La Nou was just such a place. It had to be stood on, walked round and then it had to be done all over again.

From Cap De La Nou you could see a lump of land, central on the horizon in the photo but too far away for clarity. It could only be Ibiza. If it was then Formentera couldn't be far away but to establish that one would need binoculars, hence the return to the recently bent hired Polo. Sure enough, just to the south you could make out Cap Barbera. I know it's nigh on 60 miles away but you could see it, Ibiza without binoculars, Formentera with!

The excitement was palpable and then I noticed that my expressions of joy and delight were merely carried on the wind as I was alone, the second ramble being unaccompanied and unrealised up to this point.

Consideration of the sailors of Real Nautic Club Calp has left me feeling a little cheated by them. For many years I thought them brave crossers of ocean tracts not just casually sailing from the mainland to the nearest lump of rock just over there and in Mediterranean conditions, seeable, at least from the mast head, if not the deck.

Oh, well, next June we'll miss them again as we'll be there after they've left. I can feel the excitement building already!

What a great day, Formentera sighted, spoiled only by a lady in an Audi.

160kms trouble free, 5 metres of grief and your whole day is coloured.
White.
Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Tomorrow, the mountains inland, Baranc de l'Ario valley, Guadalest and, hopefully, no Spanish ladies, or any others, for that matter. Let's hope the VW Polo has gathered all the scars it's going to collect whilst in our hands, and if this time tomorrow that has proved to be so then maybe we'll take it back a day early and save it from any more angst.

Small shopping sadness

Monday, a silvery day, wind much abated but long sleeves and fleece was deemed de rigeur. As on other lunes the day began with a shop. Last week it was a big shop. Backpacks and shopping bags at dawn, three supermercados before the third coffee of the day but this week, alas, I forgot the backpack as I was burdened with a rubbish bag and bottles for the recycling thereof.

Only a small bag was needed. Only a small shop was undertaken. One supermercado and the pan shop for pan y a lump of cake, reduced from €3 to €2 because it was fresh yesterday. Our pan shop lady was lovely trying to explain that it wasn't as fresh as it once was but I seem to be my father's son and the prospect of a square foot of cake over two inches deep for €2 was too good a bargain to miss.

In the event it was lovely, nothing in it nothing on it apart from a slight hint of limon and a crunchy sugary top. It has since disappeared and it's disappearance was aided by one whose attempt to dissuade me from parting with €2 of hers fell on deaf ears. I was quite prepared to throw it away but it was lovely, really lovely, had it been a tad deeper, browner and round it would have been just like Nana made it.

We just passed by this evening but it had all gone.



This afternoon was calm, warm, bright and just right for a wander (almost) down to the harbour at that particular time when life in all it's rich tapestry is displayed and demonstrated by skilled artisans for all to see. The arrival of the fleet is a wonder of which I never tire. Indeed, I could be down there every day and it would never fail to thrill, excite and enrapture with interest. I seem to assume that everyone feels the same but I'm graciously reminded that such is not the case.

So, there we are a sad lunes shop which barely filled one bag. The first acknowledgement made of the temporal nature of our visit. Next lunes we may not need anything at all. Much sadness is felt but I did purchase a "lid" for the making of tortillas so that when we do finally arrive back in the freezer on days when it's over 20C and I feel so inclined I could try my hand at tortilla making. Perhaps.

On the way back this evening I got a dose of fresh chorizo. I've gently fried it in olive oil and thrown it into a frying pan with tomato frites, pancetta, caramelised onion, anything else that needed using and covered the lot with a stack of sliced potato. I'm now sampling a rather nice amber ordinaire, next to me a white is rapidly ebbing from a large wine glass whilst over on the cooker it all bubbles away and will eventually either be eaten or binned.

Frankly, as long as it means that I'm no longer expected to do cooking I shall be happy, and if it is binned there's always take away pizza from just up the road.

The Sunday surfer and too much wind

Sunday would not be complete without the Sunday surfer and today was complete.

Once again she arrived with a friend, red board and I expect a great deal of disappointment. This week she / they didn't even attempt to get wet, they just walked from one end of the beach to the other sharing each others burden.

Now, had they been here anytime since last Friday they would not have been disappointed as surf has been in abundance. Had they come along on Saturday morning they'd have met with as big a surf as I've seen here, big enough to satisfy a beginner/intermediate surfer down 'meor I'd have thought. Alas, it was very, very windy and there was rain. A totally unexpected amount of rain and much of it horizontal, not that I went out in it.

Unfortunately, our guest had obviously listened to my murmurings about rain being never more than slight and at best intermittent. He'd have been better advised to ignore me like everyone else I know. It was dry within moments of stopping but it took a while before it stopped. His coat dried by the time we got to Alicante so eventually all was well. Still windy and warm.

On Friday evening we sat on the balcony as dusk descended and watched a surfer catch a few waves with a degree of success unobserved up to that moment. Indeed, he may still be out there for all we know as he was carefully observed from the balcony until the dusk had become impenetrable darkness and his invisibility was commented upon along with the warmth of the wind and the quality of the wine but I can not remember him leaving the beach. Oh well, I'm sure he's OK otherwise there would have been search parties.

The warmth of the wind as well as it's strength has been as much a feature as the quality of the wine but one has lasted much longer than the other. Even as I type the wind is still pretty fresh and now north westerly and not as cossetting as it was. Blustery and decidedly a bit nippy. Nippy enough, in fact for me to have worn sleeves when venturing out a little earlier. Nippy enough for neither of us to stay out for any meaningful exercise to have been undertaken.

The sea front has been a lonely place today and the topology of the beach has changed and is changing with every blast of breeze. A million footprints, ours included, have disappeared, the only evidence of interference on the beach is the vestigial parallel lines left by the caterpillar tracked self propelled palm manicuring platform from earlier in the week.

Not only have all the footprints gone but the fine sand has been redistributed by the irregular squadrons of zephyrs marauding over the surface. Much sand is piled up at the northern end along the harbour breakwater but most sand has been thrown out to meet the surf as it raced ashore. The beach is now featurelessly smooth as the migrant sand has left the surface covered almost entirely in small pebbles and stones.

No doubt a green person demonstration will shortly be called for as it becomes the focus of socially aware media savvy smart phone passers by as they seek to save the sand. I would hope that like most things that seem to happen here it takes it's time so that once the demonstrators arrive they will find that new footsteps will have buried the pebbles and small stones and that normal littoral topography will have been restored.

If the wind abates to the point that sand blasting of legs is neither a health or a safety consideration I can confidently assure the local populace that come tomorrow I will endeavour to do my bit in reburying and small stones or pebbles that happen to get under either of my feet.

For now, it's still windy, there's no surf and the sand's blowing all over the place so sitting and observing trumps wandering and experiencing.




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Further to my late Sunday evening post of a week ago, I wish to make it clear that at the time of posting I was ignorant of the fact that it was repeated 22 hours after that episode's "bombshell" was revealed.

I don't expect to be believed but it's true!