Formentera August 2021

Booked hols in Formentera for last August (2020) but cancelled due to Covid. Booked again for this year (2021) despite the threat of Covid sweeping through Ibiza's young and foolish disco revellers (Ibiza airport has to be negotiated in order to get to Formentera). Hols didn't start according to plan - flight from Toulouse was cancelled due to the plane having a fractured engine casing so all 120(?) passengers were wheeled off for an overnight stay in a local hotel. Flew off next day. Being a lazy burger I can't be arsed to scribe in detail all the terrifically exciting things that happened on our hol, so I've nicked some postings wot I dun on my Facebook page during those lazy afternoons when doing nothing seemed a far better option than rushing around getting sunburnt and fleeced of coinage.

1) Couple of days ago (my, how time flies) we parked up in the shadow of the La Mola lighthouse and headed to the adjacent bar shack for beers and vino. The beverages were served by a lithe person with an impressively tanned bod (the isle's full of such peeps which makes the vast expanse of my milky-white bod that much more conspicuous). Being an artist who fully appreciates the beauty of the human form I reckoned with a fair degree of certainty that our drinks server was quite probably female. A closer inspection of the subject's thoracic region revealed two wobbly bits which confirmed my suspicion as being correct (however, this deduction may well be disputed by people who have recently observed Michaela Gove in his jogging gear - not a pretty sight). Ahem, by now Geo was casting disapproving glances in my direction having noticed my concentrated study of our scantily-clad drinks-bringer, so I gave her a sheepish grin and cast my gaze out to sea. "Ooh look, a seagull!" Anyways..., what really struck me about this fine specimen of a female humanoid was that it appeared to be bereft of tattoos. Bit odd considering the current popularity of these body enhancements. In the good old days a tattoo was a mark of rebellion; now it's a mark of conformity. Weird. And the sad thing is that most of the tattoos on display (and there are billions out here!) are badly designed and hideously unattractive. And as for those big black areas that look like they're covering up an image that the owner's become bored with, or which hide the name of an ex-loved one who is now a despised enemy, well, words fail me. As an example of this blacked-out ugliness take a peek at Messi's left leg below the knee. So..., our waitress - top marks for no tattoos. Or maybe she had one in a nether region hidden from public gaze. Nah. No way. So why do people do it? Beats me. No comprendo. Then there's piercings. No, better not get started.

 2) When laziness sets in (as it does most days, but especially when on hols) and Geo asks 'what shall we do now then?' (after she and twin sis Don have been for an early swim and raid of the little seaside shop where they liberated a few croissants, a baguette, some tomatoes and other goodies before returning to HQ and berating moi for being lazy and not taking this rare opportunity of immersing my sweaty bod in the Med - "I might do it this evening, if I can be arsed") I generally respond with a slightly bemused "er...". But last Sunday I had a brainwave: "we'll have a drive!". Jumped in the Fart and hit the road - after opening the car doors and waiting about ten minutes for the seats and steering wheel to cool down enough so they were touchable without oven gloves. Drove down to the most southerly point of the isle (Cap De Barbaria) but we didn't get that far cos there's a barrier across the road about a quarter of a mile before the clff end, so we turned around and headed back inland. Boogied onwards across the isle then up the twisty hilly bit at the eastern end, passing through a heaving El Pilar De La Mola (twas market day) and eventually running out of road at the most easterly point. Parked up in the shadow of the La Mola lighthouse and hit the little bar shack where the gals had beer and I had a cool vin rose while ogling the millions of scooters (slight exaggeration eggsagggeration - how do you spell that? T,h,a,t. Simple. Ha.) coming and parking and going. Interestingly, and exceedingly encouragingly, there was an abundance of pairs of ladies scootering while executing some impressive feet-up slow turns with deft throttle control. Avoided the temptation of photoing the clifftop lighthouse (look it up if interested) wot everyone seemed to be shooting. Photoed an interesting bit of wall instead. Having run out of road we headed back to base. Good outing.

3) Top tree and pinky bushy stuff in busy Sant Francesc Xavier ce matin where we brekky coffeed and I lashed out on a Formy mug and a snorkelly thingy. Jad such a groovy time I ordered Geo to nip back to the Fart Panda and top up up the parking meter, thereby avoiding maassivo fine and a longthy jail sentence. Buggaire, podgy fingers on miniscule keypad npt goodo.

4) Unbelievable! Caviar crisps! Burst out giggling when I spotted 'em in the shop. And there were truffle ones too. The height of decadence. Or is it the depths of decadence? 

5) How are the shelves back in the sunlit uplands? They seem to be doing rather well out here in the EU Bally Erics. Bah, Brexit. Crap. Spanish bloke in open air beach bar asked moi if I was English. Told him "je suis francais". Too damned embarrassed, nay ashamed, to admit I hailed from that third world outpost. I think the Europeans' respect for Brits has been diminished by Brexit. We're now outcasts so it's no wonder we scored nil points in Eurovision. I use the "we" loosely! All very sad. Still, the Leavers won their stupid victory while complaining that "this isn't the Brexit I voted for". Oh yes it is. 

6) Hols finito. Escaped Formentera Sat midday. Ferry to Ibiza (calm sea, unlike going there - rough), cab to aeroport, plane to Toulouse, straight out, no customs or inspection (just a signed declaration that we hadn't been in touch with a covid person) - another advantage of being a French resident returning from Spain (Brexit, pah!), overnight hotel, hit the road home 11.30am after digging the car out from under a two-week pile of pigeon and magpie poo, quick stop at service area, another at Canal du Midi, another at a carwash to remove a few more oiseau droppings, turn right at Brive, all shops shut (it's the law - Sunday afternoon), sunny dash across Plateau de Millevaches, collect dawg from kennels, quick dogstroll, then home. Big spider in sink. Have now just binned crap photos, reduced not quite crap photos, and am trying to pick a few goodies - maybes there ain't any. Ah well, ç'est la vie.