73 Formentera

(Continued from '73 Ibiza' posting below.) Ferry docked at Formentera mid-afternoon Sunday. Immediately attacked the dockside ice cream parlour where Georgie and Don had a double and I had a single, then fancied a coffee so went to the caff further along (it's less busy and frenetic than the one by the ferry arrivals) next to the Jap restaurant. Then picked up the rental car - a woefully underpowered Fiat Panda that couldn't pull the skin off a rice pudding, but it's perfectly adequate for getting around this lazy, scooter infested isle.

Stopped off at the supermarket to get grub, water and vino, then boogied on to the self catering shack. First time we came here a few years back, we couldn't find the place. Spent hours searching for the right track with no success. Eventually found it down some dusty trail that wasn't signposted. This time we went straight there. Bliss. Two weeks here. A four minute stroll from the sea. Ideally situated on the gorgeous Playa de Migjorn beach. Forget the telly and computer, just do nowt.

Amazing how two weeks just flashes by when you're on holiday. Looking back, it was just a blur. Which isn't to say we did things at breakneck speed - far from it. We were busy doing nothing, apart from lounging around, swimming, driving to places we knew, driving to places we didn't know, visiting beach bars, meandering along beachside walkways in the midday sun, visiting more beachside bars, getting irate at not being able to find parking spaces (busy time of year for this increasingly popular holiday destination), being nosey and listening out for English accents (not so many this year - I blame the fall of the pound), being surprised at the number of nattering Italians (especially the many gangs of women standing waist deep in the clear blue sea). Almost forgot - apparently it hasn't rained in Formentera all summer. But, sure enough, it bucketed down on one night and day during a thunderstorm with excellent midnight lightning.

Formentera's changed. Inevitably I suppose. When I first came here way back in the '70s it was quite hippyish and underdeveloped, lazing largely undiscovered in the shadow of Ibiza. Now it's been discovered by the masses, which, in many ways, is the kiss of death. Great shame really. But, hopefully, the powers that be will stop further development by moneyed financiers and property speculators and the like, but as we all know money doesnt talk, it swears. Hopefully this wonderful little isle will resist further change. If not, I fear for its future.

Our little beach bar is scruffy. I love it. It's a friendly place to sit with damp swimming trunks and a cool beer or vin rosè while ogling the distant horizon across the sea. And it serves a cracking paella too. But, on the other hand, there's a flashy new beach bar further east, past the Blue Bar, that I visited for the first time on this jaunt. Wandered in just as the staff were preparing for the evening diners. Asked for a vin rosado. Wish I hadn't. Place was a restaurant not really a bar. Catered for this new breed of rich tourist. Felt like an unwelcome stranger. As I said, Formentera's changing.

Had some great swims in the clear sea. Fave spots are at Es Pujols (just to the right of the main beach - good bar there too), Es Calo (tiny beach below the caff with an easily accessed snorkelling bit), another good beach to the west of Es Pujols and, of course, our fab Migjorn beach. A bit further down (east) from our shack is the brilliant Sa Platgeta restaurant where we noshed my birthday evening grub. Visited it for the first time on this trip. Have every intention of visiting it again if we're lucky enough to head to the Bally Erics in the not too distant future.

On our last day Georgie and Don had a final morning swim while I sat in the beach bar waiting for it to open. The sea was mirror calm. Amazing. Then packed up, dropped the car off, ferried back to Ibiza, slobbed around in a couple of cafés, killed some more time, noshed a tortilla, fed bread to some pigeons then caught the bus to the airport (taxis are for lazy sods), faffed about, flew back to Lyon, arrived at midnightish, collapsed in the airport hotel, picked up the car, drove to Aubusson, collected Hamish and went home to a big pile of wood. Geo and Don spent a week stacking - I lent a hand but back pain restricted movement. Then we drove Don to Clermont Ferrand (see view photo) airport and she flew home to Londres. Hols over.

 

 

73 Ibiza

Crikey, these birthdays whizz by. I keep thinking I'm about 16 or 26, but, buggaire moi, here I am at bleedin' 73. How the hell did that happen?! Anyways, to celebrate, recover from shock or to drown one's sorrows at reaching this milestone, I did what I did last year and the year before that and the year before that etc.: run off to Formentera with Geo and Don for a two week escape. Cost an arm and a leg this year with travelling at high season and the dramatic collapse of the pound against the euro, but what the heck, one's only old and decrepid once (if one's fortunate enough to stagger into old age).

Took a load of photos with the mobile phone thingy; far too many to load up in a single blog posting so I thought I'd split them into three - Ibiza, Formentera and grub'n'odds. Ibiza first.

Dropped Hamish off at the local doghouse on Friday 16 August. Set off for Lyon airport Saturday lunchtimeish. Had a bad start: unbeknown to me Georgie had put her carefully packed wheelybag behind the car in readiness for a quick getaway, so when I reversed out I inadvertently drove over it. Luckily no damage but it could have been a disaster. Ahem..., flew (easyJet flight booked way back in February) late to Ibiza. Arrived at the backstreet hotel (also booked February) at around 11 pm, presumably just as the hordes of youth were preparing to go out disco grooving. Had some grub in the warm open air at the Hard Rock caff in the busy central boulevard (it's an old habit), then assumed the horizontal below a spinning ceiling fan back at the hotel.

Next morning (Sunday) we trundled around in the sunshine. Had coffee and vino rosado sitting outside the caff we always visit (at the start of the climb up to the old town on high) but the name of which always escapes moi. We'd booked the car hire in Formentera for around 3pm so we had time to kill before hopping onto the ferry from Ibiza. Did a bit of killing by slobbing about under the palm trees of the corner caff on the dockside - again, another part of our Ibiza routine. People watching is a great way to pass the time. Amazing how many vain buggers are covered in tattoos nowadays. No comprendo that fad. Makes no sense to me.

Time waits for no man, and nor does the ferry. Missed our intended bateau so caught the next one half an hour later. One of the great joys of being a geriatric old fart is that one qualifies for half price boat fare. Marvellous. Decisions decisions: to sit inside in air conditioned luxury or outside in blazing hot sunshine? As always we opted for outside, despite the threat of painful sunburn. Hats on. We're on our way.

Corinthian

Georgie gave me a tour of the garden pointing out various growths, one of which she called a corinthian plant, or summink simla. Then she went on about Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan and Composite, some of which names I vaguely recognised as Greek columns, or summink simla. Then she asked in a very superior manner "didn't you do classics?" Being a yob, of course I didn't. So I countered with "Norman, Early English, Decorated and Perpendicular" which had nothing to do with the classics but it was better than saying nothing. Er, took some snaps of other garden stuff plus some plants round and about on canine strolls. It's a good time of year for plants. But, drought conditions mean we can't legally water le jardin. We need rain.

Mint

Dogwalking at this time of year is almost enjoyable. I say 'almost' because there's one thing that ruins it. Or dozens rather. And what's my annoying bugbear? I'll tell you: flies. For some strange reason the bastards find me really attractive. Not Georgie though. She reckons it's because I stink and she doesn't. As a typical attack by flies, take our meanderings up at Sprocket Hill for example. Within minutes of leaving the car and unclipping Hamish from his lead, I'll slowly but surely become aware of numerous black dots hovering and swooping above my head. So I start swatting with flailing arms. Does no good. Probably increases my sweating which causes even more of the flying filth to inspect my balding bonce. Georgie has suggested wearing a hat. Tried that. Didn't work. My solution is to dogwalk in a covered area, such as the forest up at the Walkers' Barn. Or somewhere devoid of cattle, which is almost impossible to find locally, here in the centre of Limousin cattle country.

Couple of days ago I was sitting outside, wine glass in hand, admiring the evening view after yet another fly splattered dogwalk, when I spotted a few of the dreaded dots dancing above my head. Swatted with my left hand, spilt vino with my right. Was just about to waddle indoors to escape the bastardo nasties when Georgie suggested I put a sprig of mint on my head. Being a gardening expert she reckoned this was a sure fire deterrent to even the most determined fly. She cut me a small bush of the stuff and placed it on my head. Couple of vinos later I was feeling quite mellow as the distant hillside across the valley turned orange in the low evening sun. Quite beautiful. Then the farming mayor drove past in his pick-up truck and, as usual, we exchanged cheery waves. He probably thought why is that strange Britisher sitting there with a bush on his head?

  

MGBGT

Warwick and Lorna came to visit a couple of days ago. Drove here in their classic black MGBGT. Stayed at the B&B in Felletin. Left this morning to head back north. Amazingly, they didn't seem too horror struck by seeing our rustic abode. In fact, they seemed favourably impressed, especially with our attic room and garden. Mind you, it was sunny and the garden's looking at its best, thanks to Georgie's travails. Visitors have been known to reel back in shock as soon as the front door is opened. Bit disconcerting.

Anyways, neither of them 'do' Facebook so they wouldn't have seen my daily bletherings with photos. But Lornie mentioned that she often checks out my blog to see what we've been up to. Mentioned that I hadn't blogged for ages. I didn't realise that any of my chums still visited my bloggeau. It's one of the reasons I sort of gave it up. Maybe it's time to quit Facebook and return to blogging. Trouble is, I remember thinking most of my postings were a bit repetitive with photos of a Westie trotting along country tracks. Boring. 

So..., what's been happening since my last bit of scribing? Well, not a lot really, apart from Georgie's impressive work with the garden. And, of course, the changing seasons as enjoyed on our daily dogwalks with Hamish. Winter changed to spring, then summer. The days grew longer, the swallows arrived, jackets and pullovers were stashed, the upstairs wood burner was allowed to go out, ditto the kitchen one too. Problem is we now can't burn most of our plastic packaging so it gets binned or, if it qualifies, recycled. But..., how can we be sure all those empty plastic water bottles and stuff really gets recycled, rather than getting shipped off to the Far East where it ends up dumped in the oceans? Quite worrying.

Drove in to Felletin this morning at about 9.30 to say farewell to Wal and Lornie but, alas, they'd already gone. Left at about 9ish apparently. I'll keep in touch with their progress by email. Hope the old car keeps going in this summer heat. They're planning an overnight stay at Poitiers. Not too far in one day. Should be okay.

Drove back from Felletin and stopped off at Felletin's 'leafy chapel' (as I call it). Didn't get around to showing it to Wal and Lorn on our brief tour of the town. Took some snaps in the hope that they'll see this posting - presuming the MG makes it back to the UK without heat exhaustion or a nervous breakdown. It's an interesting structure. Looks like the old roof collapsed some time ago and was replaced by wooden criss-cross beams with greenery growing up and over, but I may be wrong. Seems to be a place for meditation and contemplation. Or maybe it's simply a cool escape from the summer sun.

Then onwards into the homeward valley where there's currently an impressive display of foxgloves. Took a few snaps then continued uphill to HQ. Not really a big fan of mobile phone photos. They're too convenient. Lazy bones. Much prefer my little Lumix LX3 camera, but I keep forgetting to take it. Time to get back in the habit. (Photos include a hailstone the size of a golf ball from last week's storm - apparently in nearby Clermont Ferrand they had hail the size of tennis balls. Impressive huh. And a photo of the garden thermometer from a few days back. Hasn't exactly been chilly.)