Holiday report

Hello.

I've been on holiday. Not for the entire time since the last post on here, sadly, but recently enough for me still to want to tell people about it.  Where? Why, to Tenerife, dear reader.  That volcanic island not far off the west coast of Africa, where the sun always* shines, the sea is a crystal blue**, the beaches are pure white*** sand, and there is song**** and laughter in the air.

It's been a difficult year in some ways, this past 12 months. We lost poor old Father in law WithaY, who is still missed, despite his almost unfailing grumpiness.  I had a fairly significant operation in January, from which I have almost completely recovered now, bar a bit of lingering tenderness and some bizarre scars.  Oh, and we've had to do quite a lot of structural/repair stuff to the house, garden and garage which has been as tiresome and complex as these things usually are.

On the plus side, I still have a job I enjoy, we have a rain-proof garage, and a much prettier front garden, and have enjoyed some of the best summer weather ever.  Oh, and we have new neighbours.  That may not sound like a big deal, but our previous neighbours were a bit of a trial at times, and it is something of a relief to know they have moved on.

But Tenerife.  Let me tell you all about it.

We flew from Bristol, a great little airport, where there are enough shops and cafes to make you feel like you are Somewhere Big, but small enough that you can relax a bit and not feel completely threatened by the place.  Unlike Heathrow, the bastard.

The flight is 4 hours, just long enough to start getting uncomfortable in your teeny tiny aeroplane seat, and if you want a drink of water or a cup of tea, you have to buy it.  Bah.  I want a return to the days when you were offered a glass of orange squash from a tray, and a barley-sugar for your ears.

There was a minute or two of disconcerting confusion after landing, trying to find the transport to our hotel, but the friendly and efficient (I sound like a cheap brochure, sorry) Thomson holidays chap pointed us to the taxi minibus that had our name on it, and off we went.  Mr WithaY and I had been toying with the idea of hiring a car while we were on the island, but the short drive to the hotel persuaded us that we were neither brave enough nor affluent enough to risk the almost-certain death/car accident that seemed to lurk around every corner. Every single car we saw while we were there looked as though it had recently competed in a demolition derby.

The hotel we stayed in is called the Europe Villa Cortes, and I heartily recommend it to the house.  It's right on the seafront, and is built in an unusual, low-level rambling Mexican style around a large central courtyard. It looks like this:

Mmmmm.  I spent much of my holiday on a lounger in this very spot, relaxing under a palm tree in the shade, occasionally popping in for a swim.  There is a waterfall in the pool, which I enjoyed standing under (when I felt brave enough, it was an unheated pool.)

I saw, for the first time that I can remember, dates growing on palm trees.  They are beautiful!

I took those pictures from the balcony of our room, rather than from atop another, taller, palm tree.

The hotel is decorated throughout in a Mexican style, but with Spanish touches.  I loved the lights wrapped around the trunks of the trees around the courtyard, the many small bowls of fresh flowers, floating in water in intricate patterns, and even the rubber water lilies in a fountain. It was all so strange, and so foreign, and so very, very pleasant.

The house artist seems to have modelled their style on Beryl Cook's. There were fat naked ladies, fat saints, fat picadors and best of all, fat ponies on almost every wall. And skeletons on the lift doors.

The food was (predictably, by now, I expect) excellent. Here is a breakfast omelette, made to order, and garnished with guacamole, fresh flowers, and a tortilla.  We also had fizzy wine with breakfast.  Such decadence. I felt like I was in an episode of Poirot.

Mr WithaY added extra bacon and tomatoes, because clearly a few fresh flowers are not enough to sustain a man who intends to spend a day snoozing on a sunlounger by the pool.

Apart from waddling contentedly around the hotel, what did we do?

We went here.  Proudly billed as the most spectacular water park in Europe, I have to say, it was jolly good fun.  Mr WithaY went on every single ride. I went on a few, but still far more than I thought I was going to.

We arrived mid-morning, having been involved in a truly alarming bus queue scuffle, which involved two Spanish blokes almost coming to blows, and several women screaming and waving their babies in the air, found a locker, locked away all our stuff (sunblock, hats, sunglasses, bottles of water - you know, all the stuff that keeps you from being burned to a crisp in the boiling sun) because there were signs all over the place making it very clear that if you went on any of the rides in  hat, sunglasses, wearing a watch, carrying a camera etc etc etc you MIGHT BE KILLED.  I may be misremembering a few details, but it was something like that. Anyway, they were most emphatic about not wearing sunglasses.

Siam Park, so called because the King Of Siam visited Tenerife in about 1913.  Etcetera etcetera etcetera.

It's very cleverly landscaped, covering most of the side of a large hill, and is laid out to ensure you hear terrified screaming from almost every single point you visit.

This is the Tower of Power, a 92 feet high slide which shoots you down the front of the temple-like structure above, and through a shark tank, before spitting you out into the pool at the end.  I declined to have a go. Mr WithaY leapt up the many, many stairs with a glad cry, waited at the top for ages, and was then plummeted down again in about 2 seconds.

More to my taste was the Lazy River ride, a long, meandering waterway with a few "rapids", a waterfall, and some bubble jets, that you floated around on a huge rubber tyre thing, splayed out in the sun like a pale, damp starfish.  Perfect.  I went on that five or six times, while Mr WithaY was flinging himself down near-vertical Tubes Of Death.

We had also booked a trip one evening to go to the top of Mount Teide to watch the sunset, have dinner and then do some stargazing, but due to ridiculous admin errors on the part of the holiday company and Mr WithaY and I, that never happened, sadly.

We DID go whale-watching.  We saw many pilot whales, including mothers and babies, which were lovely.  Unfortunately, though, I am (always, ALWAYS, when will I learn) seasick, so the only photos I took were of the early part of the trip as we left the island.  There are no photos of frolicking whales, as I was too busy barfing over the side of the boat, occasionally pausing to say "Oh, they're adorable!" before being plunged back into my world of misery.

What else?  The food was superb. I drank many cocktails. Mr WithaY drank a lot of good sherry. We enjoyed chilling by the pool, walking along the seafront, looking at the blue, blue sky and palm trees, exclaiming at the sheer number of shops selling electronic items and duty-free perfume.  All the usual holiday stuff.

In short, if you are going to Tenerife, I can recommend the hotel.  There's not much to do on the island (not the bit we were in, at least) other than eat, drink and sunbathe, so having a hotel with plenty of top-quality amenities was brilliant.  One the days when it rained like the end of the world (inevitable on a WithaY holiday) we found books in the hotel library, ensconced ourselves in comfy chairs in the piano bar and spent the day looking out at the terrible weather, drinking hot chocolate and reading trashy books I'd never have bought for myself.

 And now it's November, and it gets dark at 4.30pm, and the weather has turned cold.  I'm glad to be back.






*Except when we were there, when 5 people were drowned in flash floods
**Except when we were there, when it crashed relentlessly onto the beach in a white-foamed rage
***Only the ones imported from the Sahara.  The remainder are composed of razor-sharp volcanic rocks
****Flamenco. Or, memorably, Mariachi music.

Postcard number 5

The weather has cooled down to a brisk 88 degrees today, with a breeze from the sea, so it is much less stifling than it was.  The local papers and tv news is all about the Heatwave of DEATH that is sweeping the north-east of the US, so we've had the enjoyable sense that we are in the middle of a climate-based disaster movie, possibly starring Jeff Goldblum or Will Smith, where stern men in hard hats glare at blueprints and yell into telephones.  We've been fighting the Heatwave of DEATH by going to the beach and eating ice cream.  Well, we all do what we can.

We all went up to Provincetown earlier in the week.  That's the town right on the very tip of Cape Cod, poking out into the Atlantic a long way.  Look on a map, British readers.  It was incredibly, searingly hot.  That was the day that the official temperature in Boston reached 100 degrees - a rarity, I understand - and it was not far off that in P-town, as we locals call it.

We were up there early as we had booked onto a whale-watching trip.  Readers, we saw scads of the buggers.  Humpback whales, of which I managed to take three photos, shadowy vague dark blots on the water.  Mr WithaY took some fantastic photos which I will post on here if he lets me. 

There is a huge marine reserve off the coast of New England, and because P-town is so far out it only takes an hour or so before you arrive at the prime whale watch area.  We saw a mother and calf, rolling around on and just under the surface, the calf feeding from the mother as they both swam slowly past us.  That was lovely.  They're big, whales, aren't they? 

We then plodded along a bit fiurther, leaving the mother and calf in peace, before encountering a group of five or six animals all feeding just under the surface.  They were incredible, spouting and splashing and flapping their big tails out of the water.  Lovely. 

The boat is run by a company who are very keen on marine conservation, and they went to some lengths to make it clear that we might not see any animals close to, as there are strict laws about bothering whales (and other marine animals).  We were very fortunate that the whales moved nearer to our boat when we stopped and watched them. 

The same could not be said for some fuckwit in a small fishing boat.  He and his scarlet, elephantine wife were gaily moving around right on top of the whales, at times starting their engines to get even closer.  The captain of our boat was furious, and the on-board marine biologist filmed the whole thing.  They reported it to the appropriate authorities over the radio (Coastguard?  Navy?  Department of Fisheries? Neptune?  I was too excited by the whales to pay much attention) and told us that the fool driving that boat would be getting a visit from them in the near future, and there was anything up to a $100,000 fine for that kind of flagrant breach of the law. 

As is traditional, on the way back to port I felt as though I was about to die.  In my defence, I think it was probably mostly heat-related, as the sea was mirror-calm.  To be fair, though, I could get seasick in the bath on a bad day. 

Once back on land, we found  a place to get lunch.  It was air-conditioned to a mere 83 degrees, and we sat there for ages until we felt strong enough to go outside again. 
 
We ducked in and out of shops but it was so incredibly hot and muggy that none of us had much energy for shopping.  Something I now regret, as we found a place selling Big Lebowski t-shirts.  I particularly liked the "You're entering a world of pain" one.  We can always pop back to get some I suppose.

In the evening we had booked to go on a Dune Safari.  There's a company called Art's Dune Tours, now run by the Son Of Art, where you all pile into large 4-wheel drive vehicles with most of the air let out of the tyres, and they drive you across the dunes to look at the wildlife, the artists' shacks and the incredible, freaky landscape. 

Our driver and guide was a nice chap called John who works as a biology teacher in term time and a park ranger in the summer, moonlighting as a dune safari guide in his spare time.  We told him we were disappointed he wasn't wearing his park ranger hat.  Apparently they aren't allowed to unless they are working on official park ranger business. 

I will post some pictures of the dunes when I get home.  The climax of the trip was a stop at a beach to watch the sunset.  I paddled in the water - crystal clear and beautifully refreshing after such a searingly hot day - where we had a large seal join us as the sun went down.  He kept popping up closer and closer to the beach, which was a real bonus.  I failed to get a photo, but I could probably draw a picture if anyone's interested. 

A late-night sandwich from a cheeky man in a seafront sandwich shop, and we were home by 11. 

Yesterday Mr WithaY went sea fishing, and returned home in triumph with bluefish and striped bass.  No sunburn, and managed not to lose any fingers, toes or ears, so a triumphant day all round.  We dined like kings on bluefish for supper.  Nom nom nom.

I went out to Chatham and Orleans with our lovely hostess, where we explored the shops.  There's a place on the seafront where you can get excellent lobster rolls, so we picked up some lunch from there and went to eat it sitting in the shade of a large maple tree in the old cemetary.  Unusual, but pleasant. 

I had to buy another memory card for my camera, as I have completely filled one already.  Over 700 pictures.  Hey family - bet you can't wait to sit through all those, can you?

Today it's much cooler, and we plan to do some domestic stuff with our hostess.  Possibly there will be ice-cream. 

Burned

Am still in Malta, in case you were wondering. Where I have managed to get bizarre and disturbing sunburn. I look like I am wearing a pair of shiny red shoes, and one (only one) bright red armbrace, like a camp gladiator.

How did I manage that, I hear you ask. With my bionic ears.

Well, yesterday we went out on a boat trip. Mr WithaY was scuba diving and had very kindly arranged for me to come with the dive group to look at the little island of Comino, a little way off Gozo. Look on a map.

All went well as we set sail from Gozo, sun sparkling off the iridescent blue sea, etcetera etcetera etcetera.

We got the the first dive site, where the boat anchored itself, about 100 yards from the shore. All the divers started getting kitted up. This in itself would have been entertainment enough for me, but I was realising with growing dismay that this was where we were staying.

On the boat. Not on the island.

In what was, frankly, rather lumpy water. The boat was rocking side to side, end to end and I think also straight up and down*. I sat and watched the happy divers all leap into the water, and tried to ignore my growing queasiness.

I managed to ignore it for half an hour or so by lying to myself that I was sleeping, as I thought, in the shade, with my head in my arms, leaning on the rail. That time-tested tactic eventually failed me, and I was sick as a dog.

Several times. It was most dramatic. Luckily, not onto any of the divers as they swam about under the boat.

Anyhoo, once they all got back in the boat we sailed off to another bit of Comino and got off the boat (I was first) to eat our packed lunches. I asked the boat driver if I could wait on land while they did the second dive, and he agreed to come back and pick me up in a couple of hours.

So instead of a second hideous bout of mal de mare, I spent a pleasant afternoon watching small fish, crabs, lizards and dragonflies in a rocky cove.

But unfortunately, because I felt so ill in the morning, I stupidly neglected to take my customary anti-sunburn precautions. Tch.

Still having a lovely holiday though.



*I may have hallucinated that part.

Seaside frolics

After spending the last few days more or less holed up in the house, eating like greedy fat kings and watching TV till our eyes dried up, we decided we ought to go out. To stop us getting rickets, if nothing else.

Mr WithaY suggested we head down to the coast and see if Tyneham village was open to the public. It's a tiny little place that was evacuated in about 1943 so the Army could use it for training; after WW2 ended, the Army hung onto it.

Much to the dismay of some of the former residents, who had expected to move back there, and kept petitioning the War Office about it for years afterwards. Well, you would, wouldn't you?

We walked down to the coast, which was very pleasant, watched the sea for a bit, admired the Jurassic coast (no dinosaurs thankfully), expressed dismay at all the rubbish washed up onto the beach, and then scrambled back up the muddy banks onto the path, getting covered in crud as we did so.






We walked round the ruined village which was very sad. They have put little information plaques up in some of the houses telling you who lived there, with photos of some of the former residents.

What was incredible to me was the size of some of the households. Two or three roomed cottages with eight or nine people living in them. That's all the rooms in the house, not the number of bedrooms, mind.

And not always many children, either. Some of the houses had several adults living there, in what must have been rather cramped conditions.



Still, they did a lot more of their living out of doors than we do. One little note staggered me. It mentioned that the women of the village used to walk the 12 miles there and back to Weymouth to get their groceries.

Walk. 12 miles.

Pushing prams, because that was how they lugged all their shopping home again. I would gripe about walking 2 miles to get the shopping, never mind 12. And it's hilly country round there. With a small child or two in a pram to boot.

No wonder they all looked about 30 years older than they really were. They were some tough people.

This made me laugh though.



And Mr WithaY was delighted to find these....


They look like Klingon must-have accessories, but are in fact shark egg cases. And he brought them home. Presumably to put next to his collection of whale's teeth.

Almost forgot. Before we went to the village, we stopped off at an excellent pub and had lunch. There were two old ladies having a lunch too, and were talking very LOUDLY. I assume at least one of them had a hearing problem.

One of them dropped her knife on the floor "Oh no! I've dropped my knife!" she bellowed.

"Do you need it?" asked her companion.

"Well, I think so" she said.

"No you don't. Just use your fork."

I love old ladies.

Teeth

Forgot to mention earlier. Mr WithaY brought a bag of sperm whale's teeth home with him. Nice.

Much of yesterday was spent scrubbing them in the garden (by him, not me), and preparing various evil solutions of soda and water to soak them in.

Why? You may well ask.

I have. If I get an answer, I'll be sure to share it.

The unfortunate whale was washed up (dead) onto the beach where he had to go and visit on Friday, so he got permission to extract some of the teeth to bring home.

They'll look lovely on the kitchen dresser.

Or maybe he'll put them on the wall, next to the fucking crossbow.

*sigh*

When he told me he was going to go and chisel the teeth out of a huge dead sea mammal I nodded, my natural horror and disbelief numbed from 20 years of living with a modern Davy Crockett.

At work on Thursday I told a colleague of Mr WithaY's plans, and said "I hope he took his overalls with him."

That night, a message on the answerphone informed me that Mr WithaY had had to go and buy a new pair of trousers to wear to his meeting because the only ones he'd taken were now covered in whale juice.

You couldn't make it up.

I wish I could. I so do.