I soon dried off, put on my dress and had a flick through my book. Then I went over to the pool bar. I felt a little unsettled and silly for it. Looking back, it seems like it was some kind of intuition. I didn’t use to believe in such things, but now I do think it’s possible to sense when something really bad is going to happen to you. Maybe it’s your self-preserving spider sense tipping you off. Maybe it’s your future self, wanting to warn you. I don’t know.
“Sangria please,” I said to the middle-aged barmaid.
“Of course,” she replied with a warm smile, then mixed me up a large glass, brimming with ice and fruit.
“Gracias,” I said to her, and went to sit down at a small table.
“Hola,” said an English accented voice to me, as some beefcake walked by, strutting like a peacock. He winked at me and I almost heaved. What a twat.
I soon finished my drink and my friend behind the bar knocked me up another one. I was still a bit on edge. Maybe I was still stressed about things back home. I don’t know. I went for another swim, then came back and took a Caesar salad at the pool bar, before going to my room to get properly dressed. I was feeling better and excited again too. For the afternoon, I had booked a camel ride and a tour up to the volcanoes, known as Timanfaya, or in English: Fire Mountain.
13
The coach was hot and stuffy and smelled like burnt sun cream; Brits on hols. I took my cardigan off and switched on the little air-con hatch above my head. As the coach set off along the dusty tarmac, I got butterflies in my stomach. There’s something about heading off on the first tour of the holiday. A warm local sounding voice spoke through the bus speakers, in good English too. She began to describe the history of the island as we stopped and picked up various guests from all of the nearby hotels. It was interesting – she talked all about the formation of the island through continuous and deadly volcanic eruptions. That of course is how the Island gained its totally unique, unworldly landscape. The first to inhabit the island were apparently the Phoenicians about 1000BC. They also created an alphabet that is an ancestor to our modern letters – so there you are.
The tour guide must have been sitting down opposite the driver because I couldn’t see her as she talked. She was nice to listen to though, and I was interested in what she was saying. I sat gazing out of the window at one amazing hotel after another. Soon enough we had collected all of our passengers and started to head up into the hills. There were a few loners like me on the bus, and a few families. Most were couples. There were a few my age or younger – maybe even on honeymoon – all fresh faced in their new summer wear. Then there were the older couples. Most looked happy enough in each other’s company. But there was one couple who were making a fair old racket. They were hissing at each other in American whispers a few rows behind me. It seemed that the man had been enjoying some of the other sights back at the poolside a little much.
We drove on through many little villages – all like little film set locations – as if they’d only just been created. Everywhere along the steep barren hills were higgle-piggled dry stone walls in circular shapes, scattered all over. Our guide then told us that this was for the local wine industry. This was how the struggling vines were protected to grow as much as they could for the many little vineyards on the island.
A memory pricked me suddenly of a family holiday, when I must have been very small, as my mum was there, not having done a runner as yet. We were on holiday on one of the Channel Islands, Jersey maybe, smelling lavender at a perfumery. We were given little sticks with different scents on each one and I was excited trying to match the smells to the bottles. Each one smelled heavenly. I think my Dad bought my Mum the one that was her favourite. Afterwards we visited a local vineyard and my parents enjoyed a freshly crafted glass of white wine. It was a good memory. If it had been a few years later, my mother would have drunk the bottle. Maybe the perfume too.
We stopped in a rocky little valley full of buses and camels. It had clearly become a tourist hotspot for those wanting a camel ride experience. Local men, with thick beards and wide brimmed hats, herded the camel trains, cajoling the lead camels into sitting up or bending down. Every time they did so, dozens of passengers on their own camels let out shrieks and laughs of nervous pleasure. I felt hesitant myself as I was helped onto a saddle, and then sandbags were placed on the other side of the smelly beast. Before I knew it, with a slap of a stick and a groan from the camel, I was hoisted jerkily up into the air. I enjoyed the experience anyway, despite the chaffing on my ass and needing to cling on for dear life. I was sure I wasn’t strapped in right as our camel train walked up and down a hill, me nearly slipping off during our descent. Falling to the ground would have had additional hazards as the
