Needless to say, for the second night running, I had no sleep. Rip Van Winkle couldn’t have slept at the camp site. It would be a good place to bring patients out of comas. There is no gap between my tent, the two either side, and the three behind. The row opposite is barely a metre away. When I sneezed a disembodied voice said “Bless you!” Continue reading “Benicassim 3: It’s only Rock ‘n’ Roll But I Like It.”
Down through the rubbish piles I walked to the shower block. Luckily it was almost empty. I couldn’t decide whether this was down to the hour (7.00) or just a suspension of hygiene regimes by my fellow festivaliers. Fear of the shower block itself may also have been a factor. Continue reading “Benicassim 2: I’ve Got Soul But I’m Not A Soldier”
The train from Valencia arrived in Benicassim 40 minutes late. No biggie. Most of the alighting passengers had decided to walk to the festival site so I tagged along. It was a hot slog. No shade and by the side of a road, but we got there. I traded in my first bit of paperwork for a wristband allowing me festival access for the next four days, and made my way to Campfest, the campground attached to the festival grounds. Here I traded in my next paperwork at the Glamping Company portacabin for another wristband, giving admission to that area and my pre-ordered tent. Continue reading “Benicassim 1: Glamping, It’s All About The Bass.”
I was pulled aside at security at LBA. There was a problem with the sandwich in my bag. Security, although friendly, seemed to think it odd that I would bring my own food to the airport. ??? I explained about my food allergy.
‘Gluten?’ I was asked conversationally.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m allergic to poor quality, overpriced food. It causes melancholy and I could break out into a temper.’ Continue reading “Girona 1: The Bridge”
On a bright but cool day we went off to Garachico. Nice place. Quiet and picturesque. A good choice if you wanted solitude to write your novel, or if you were on the lam, hiding from the authorities… or the mob. There’s very little there, a nice hotel, a couple of restaurants, churches of course. And, most bizarrely in this tiny village, a museum. We paid two euros and went in. The building, a fifteenth century convent was more interesting than the eclectic collection of exhibits. Old farm tools, photos and manuscripts. Although they did have a collection of seashells. I have collected seashells myself over the years, I keep my vast collection on beaches all over the world. Perhaps you’ve seen some of them. Continue reading “Tenerife 2: Tiny Castles, Steep Hills and Fiestas.”
It was our last full day in Naples, so we had a busy day planned. I wasn’t worried when I couldn’t locate my passport immediately. My demeanor changed when The Little Nurse couldn’t find it either. She can find anything. Keys, credit cards, letters from the water company, not to mention needles in haystacks, anything. I think it was her who found Osama Bin Laden although she never talks about it. The passport was missing and our day just went to custard. Continue reading “Naples 3: Has Brad Pitt Got My Passport?”
Off to Pompeii today. Vesuvius, the eruption and all that. A previous neighbour of mine was always burning garden rubbish and that got on my pip, so I would have been a bit pissed off, if, as a resident of Pompeii back in 79AD, that a mountain blew up just after I’d hung out my washing. Nightmare. Continue reading “Naples 2: Pompeii, Is It Me or Is it Hot in Here.”
‘Ryanair have cheap flights East Midlands to Naples,’ said The Little Nurse ‘Wanna go?
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Someone should keep an eye on the Italians. Might as well be us.’
Ryanair let us down this time. I don’t normally knock Ryanair but they harried us to board quickly, two hours late, only to tell us we probably wouldn’t be leaving for another two hours. We arrived in Naples at 2.00am, over 4 hours late, too late to eat, but we were able to get a drink in the hotel reception. Gin is a kind of food, right?
The hotel was a bit weird. It bills itself as an ‘Art Hotel’ whatever that is. Maybe it’s because your wardrobe is a collection of brightly coloured shelves and a hanging rail, without doors. Or sides. Or a top. Or maybe it’s because the corridor lights are in the floor so you have to dance around them in order not to burn your feet. Or could it be the lamp made from a juice carton? The room had french windows, opening on to a tiny balcony, overlooking a fabulous street. No sea view, no rolling parkland or ornate gardens. Just a proper street with people, traffic, arguments, and dogshit. I loved it. Continue reading “Naples 1: Keeping an Eye on the Italians.”
The Freedom Trail is a red line on the Boston sidewalks which you follow around to see all the historic sites. Go on your own or join an organized tour. (Or hang around at the back of a group to get the skinny without the cost). We joined our prearranged guided tour on a drizzly morning and set off. It’s pretty good if a little over patriotic for non US citizens, especially us Brits. The guides are informative, enthusiastic, and importantly they have a sense of humour. Essential when they have to deal with a sarcastic clever-shoes like me. Continue reading “Boston 1: A Technical Defeat on The Freedom Trail.”
After the incident with the dogs in El Acerbo I set off for Ponferrada. It was mainly downhill and the terrain was either scree-like or huge fissured boulders. Tough going. I spotted a woman ahead in the distance. She was moving very slowly, unsure of her footing. I could see that she was struggling from a mile away. Even from that distance I could also see that she could never be described as a small eater, adding to her problems. She had my sympathy, I had been a little overweight myself a few years ago. Mine had been a medical condition though. I suffered from an overactive knife and fork. Continue reading “Camino 10: Downhill Racer”