I arrived in the Canary Island of Fuerteventura yesterday afternoon for a weeks hiatus. The town, which’ll be my home for seven nights, the southern borough of Jandia. Fuerte’s premier resort rhyming with Randia.
Footnote – Talking of Randia, as I’m here without my Ossett beau Sarah, that’s a feeling I’ll be avoiding for a week.
Upon exiting the terminal after yesterday’s arrival I strolled out into 20 degree sunshine… Take note UK climate… Oh, and spare me any of your “Give me a break, it’s winter, Gaz!” nonsense.
However, as much as I’d like to shamefully brag to the contrary, the two hour bus journey fro the airport wasn’t accompanied by wall to wall sunshine. Around half an hour into the sojourn dark clouds hung over a group of volcanic mountains/hillocks dissected by the highway leading us south.
Looking at the charcoal nimbostratus clouds at the pinnacle of one of the taller hills, it appeared rain was dousing the terracotta rock formation. Although not naked to the eye, I imagined the resultant precipitation cascading through the hilly terrains softer eroded channels like teardrops.
If the stark scene was a metaphor of my current existential zeitgeist, I remained unfazed. After all, like calvary coming to save a procession of cowboy wagons from injuns, my spirits were about to be rescued by azure blue skies on the horizon.
During the odyssey to my hotel, there were several sightings of camper vans similar to my beloved VW transporter Victor. These vehicles parked up on makeshift sites; along with a number rolling the same tarmac underpinning my coach journey… I might be guilt of automobile nepotism (if that’s a thing), but none of the other mobile homes could hold a torch to Vic’s beauty or joie de vivre.
As I journal these observations, I’m partly working from notes I took in a jotter during yesterday’s one hundred and twenty minute journey to Jandia. Locutions jotted down in a hurried scrawl and in part barely legible…. I guess, though, if you’re reading these then I’ve succeed in eventually interpreting and transcribing the scribble.
I was up and out of bed at 07.30am this morning. Admitting finally, despite my attempts to prove to the contrary, pain from a finger infection (caused by a cut received on Monday) wasn’t going to allow me any further sleep. The swelling significant enough to deprive me of bending the affected digit.
The hotel apparently has a doctor who visits on a daily basis, I’m currently awaiting her arrival. I’m definitely suffering for my art today; every key I hit with the middle finger of my left hand extracting a pain induced wince.
It has to be said, sitting in shorts and t-shirt in twenty degree sunshine is a huge fillip… Incidentally, lots of similarly glaringly obvious snippets from GJ Strachan’s literary back catalogue are accessible in my book ‘No Shit, Sherlock!’… Available at no good book shops, or coming to think of it, rubbish ones!
I’ve got another hour until my doctors appointment. As I write, it appears one of the entertainment reps is touring the pool areas recruiting participants for some activity or other. Although a fairly sociable fella (I think), I ordinarily avoid taking part in such clambakes… Well, unless there’s a hotel Shove Ha’penny competition in which case I’m put ion the reps hands.
One activity I’m contemplating is a Zoom quiz with mates from Gateshead on Thursday evening. As a consequence I’ve begun writing a set of absurd ‘True or False’ inquiries relating to my current holiday. Amongst those already penned is the following:-
True or False – The pool man Maurice frowns upon guests urinating in the swimming pools? – False. He’s normally cool about it… That being said, if the staff do it he goes apeshit!
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