Menorca 2003 - Day 1

This year we’re off to Menorca. Pauline’s booked us into an apartment in a resort called Son Bou and we’re flying out from Gatwick to Mahon at 6 pm today with a charter airline called Excelair. We’re taking Emma and her boyfriend Dan with us this time. As usual we had to be at the airport at least two hours before take-off and we arrived about 3.30 pm, immediately joining one of two queues at the check-in desks. We didn’t finish checking in until an hour and ten minutes later and why did it take us all this time I hear you asking?

Well, it was all down to one immensely fat family of five and a couple of even fatter suitcases. We were roughly three or four people behind them but as it turns out we might as well have been fifty behind them as we stood around watching the minutes tick by while they sorted themselves out. It appeared that their suitcases were too heavy. Not all of them, only a couple but they were told that unless they redistributed the weight amongst the rest of their cases they were going to be in trouble.

The maximum permitted weight per suitcase was 30 kilos and if the case weighed more than this it would have to be checked in separately at a different desk, ah, but only if it was slightly over the weight. If it was so heavy that the fat man couldn’t even lift it off the floor and onto the check-in scales then something wasn’t quite right. So the check-in girl weighed all the cases and pointed to two of them. From where we were standing we couldn’t actually hear the conversation and when the fat man walloped one of the cases onto the ground and started to undo it we still wondered what was going on. I thought he’d been caught smuggling something but if that was true he’d have been escorted away wouldn’t he?

As the fat man unzipped the case the contents spilled out as the pressure of the lid was released and he started to sift through the case. At the same time the fat woman was opening another case and as the fat man passed things to her she was struggling to stuff them into her case. They were beginning to take up more and more floor space around the check-in desk as the fat man chucked things at the fat woman while she chucked things out of her case onto the floor to try and make room for the things the fat man was chucking at her. The fat man reached into his cavernous case time and time again, a pair of step ladders, a hundredweight of potatoes and an anvil were just a few of things I thought I saw coming out of it. The fat woman had meanwhile undone another case to help with the packing of the stuff still being thrown at her and the circle of sweating people, cases and contents got even wider. The fat man would close his case and put it back on the scales, take it off, re-open it, chuck something at the fat lady, put the case back on the scales again only to be told it was still over the limit. This went on and on and on until the right balance had been achieved when the fat man and woman, drenched in sweat, hurled their bags onto the check-in conveyor belt and waddled away shouting and waving their arms at each other.

Finally the people in front of us checked in.

The man standing directly in front of me was given a baggage strip to put around the handle of his hand luggage which he took and looked at intently. He seemed to spend ages trying to figure out what he had to do with it. All you have to do, as you may well know, is to remove a small piece of paper at one end of the strip revealing a sticky patch to be attached to the other end. Trouble was the man removed all the paper, all the way along and ended up with one complete strip of sticky paper and nothing else. It kept getting stuck to his fingers, bag and anything else it came into contact with until finally, in frustration, he stuck it on the side of his bag in one big sticky ball and walked away shaking his head.

The flight was uneventful, although we took off five minutes early and landed twenty minutes early, which for a charter flight is pretty much unheard of. We sat through the usual safety demonstration before take-off, you know the sort of thing, “If we crash, adopt the safety position, bend forward, head between knees (no sir, your own knees), hands clamped above your head, you’ll go quicker that way.”

We got through the baggage hall quickly enough and went straight out to the airport entrance to start looking for a taxi. We’d been told by the people we were renting the apartment from to expect to pay roughly 23 Euros from the airport to San Bou and we had details of the resort and a map to hand so the taxi ride should be straight forward enough. We could see the taxi rank immediately to our left and as we approached a taxi sidled up and the driver got out and opened the boot of the car. We had four large suitcases, two smaller cases of hand luggage and various bags, cameras and handbags between the four of us. Pauline showed the taxi driver the map and asked, “How much?” The taxi driver didn’t appear to understand as he made no effort to reply but just stood there looking at the map with a puzzled expression on his face. Finally he said, “55 Euros.”

This is ridiculous. 55 Euros?

“How much?” Pauline said in surprise.

“55 Euros,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

“But that’s much more than it’s supposed to be,” Pauline said.

He shrugged again and pointed at each of our suitcases in turn.

What’s he trying to say? That the four pieces of luggage are costing us an extra 32 Euros? Doesn’t he expect anyone on holiday to have any luggage? Pauline looked at me and we both shook our heads. I turned away from the taxi driver and said to Pauline, “Let’s just go back inside the airport and check with that information desk that we saw on our way out, maybe they’ll know the going rate.” So we said no thanks to the taxi driver, who looked a bit like Private Walker the spiv in Dad’s Army to tell you the truth, he also looked really annoyed and his eyes were darting about in a very shifty way but not enough to stop him immediately grabbing the bags of another family of four and start loading them and the family into his taxi. This family obviously had money to burn as they didn’t ask in advance what their fare would be, either that or they were blissfully unaware of the fact that they were going to be ripped off when they reached their destination.

I didn’t warn them. People have to make their own way in this world don’t they?

Meanwhile Pauline had nipped back to the airport information desk to find out if this taxi driver really was ripping us off or whether taxi fares had risen 500% in the two months since we’d been told the price. She soon came back shaking her head, “No, it should be 25 Euros, maximum 30 Euros if they add on a bit for items of luggage after 9 pm,” she said. I wasn’t sure what that last bit meant about items of luggage after 9 pm, seemed to have been made up on the spot to me, but even so, 30 Euros was a huge difference to our original fare. What a bastard eh? 55 Euros. Hope he drives straight into a brick wall, after he’s dropped off his passengers of course.

We approached the taxi rank again. I was praying that in the time it had taken for us to sort ourselves out, the bastard rip-off driver hadn’t delivered his passengers and returned already to pick us up again. I nervously eyed up the taxi driver who was getting out to take our bags. Phew, it wasn’t him. This man was nice and friendly and charged us 25 Euros.

We arrived at our destination, San Jaime, a sort of holiday village in the main resort of Son Bou and the taxi driver helped us to find where our apartment might be. We were in Zone ZEH4, number 13. That address gives you some idea of the size of this complex, we were just a number within a zone and it seemed to go on for ever. The place is a 25 years old purpose built holiday location with its own facilities, pools, shops, bars and restaurants. The trouble is that with a captured population of holiday makers the prices are not exactly cheap. We unpacked and wandered out to the pool complex a couple of minutes away where there was a huge bar area with evening entertainment. It was getting late so we sat ourselves down as far away from the stage and the noisy kids as possible and ordered a drink. Tonight’s entertainment was a boy/girl group called ‘5 Steps’ and guess what pop group(s) they were pretending to be. Had a couple of beers and then it was back to the apartment for a reasonably early night to drown out the off-key singing. 

Menorca 2003 - Day 2

Pauline has to keep reminding me to take my vitamin tablets every morning, I have no idea what they’re for, just that there are four of them and they’re supposed to be good for me. They don’t make me feel any different but maybe I’d feel a lot worse if I didn’t take them. These pill manufacturers aren’t stupid are they?

We checked out the supermarket this morning. Because there’s no competition they can charge what they like but a sliced loaf of cheap looking white bread for over a pound? Come on, is everyone here from Islington? They must be if they’re paying these prices. In fact most items, apart from wines and spirits, are more than double the price at home (mind you we do only shop in “The Pound Shop”). The trouble is there isn’t anywhere else to shop unless you take the bus into the nearest town or hire a car.

Saw a couple of items in the supermarket which I might take home with me. One was a litre of liquor in a bottle the shape of a football boot and the other was a litre of genuine Scotch whisky called “Kilt Castle”………. nice.

Plenty of restaurants as you would expect but as it’s an artificial environment there are no small non-touristy bars or places to discover. We’ll have to see how far away the next real town or village is to add some variety to the holiday.

Emma and Dan got up late and spent the afternoon doing whatever it is they do while we just lazed around.

It was soon time to go for our evening meal, doesn’t time fly? So we quickly did the rounds of the various restaurants to check out prices and what was on offer. The one we chose was a very big place with a large sort of indoor terrace. We were given a table by the far side overlooking the street below. As we were being shown to our table I noticed that all the waiters seemed to be fairly short wiry types with shaven heads and surly looks. They were either all gay or out on parole or both. One of them came over, brought us the menus and asked if we wanted a drink. We ordered a bottle of house red for us and some water for Emma. The waiter came back with the wine and for some reason showed me the label and then poured a small drop into Pauline’s glass for her to taste. Obviously here in Menorca it’s the man’s job to do the most important thing of looking at the label while the lady just has the mundane task of actually tasting the stuff. As the waiter stopped pouring the wine into Pauline’s glass he spilt a few drops onto the clean white tablecloth. Pouring wine for the rest of us he did it again, he was slopping the wine all over the place. I didn’t actually say anything to him, I didn’t like to mention it in case he was out on parole and punched me one or even worse he might have been gay and burst into tears. I decided, on balance, to keep quiet.

Shortly after, another waiter appeared, looking nothing like all the others. Well he had a shaven head but that was as far as the similarities went. This was a tall, well-built bloke.

“Ready to order yet?” he said in a loud broad Australian accent.

“We are, but I’ve got a question about this pork sirloin,” Pauline said.

“I’m here to answer any questions you might have young lady,” the waiter said.

“Is it fatty?” said Pauline.

“Well, I can’t answer that,” he said, “it might be, who knows? Could be, may not be. Best not to have it I’d say.”

“Well I think I will,” I said.

“OK sir, you don’t mind what it’s like then?” he said.

“No, I’ll take it as it comes,” I said.

“Right, how would you like it cooked? Rare, medium, well done?” he asked.

“Does it make any difference?” I asked.

“Quite honestly, no,” he said.

“Fine,” I said.

Pauline chose pork fillet and Emma and Dan ordered pizza.

The Aussie took the order and hurried away but not before turning to Emma and with a big grin said in a loud voice, “You’ve caught the sun today haven’t you?” Emma immediately went redder than she already was and the waiter moved off smiling. He carried on with this sort of banter throughout the evening at every table he visited and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

I must admit though that by the end of the evening he was beginning to get on my nerves.

Menorca 2003 - Day 3

Menorca is owned by the ants.

The place is full of them.

We’ve been warned to keep all food covered, not to leave any food lying about and to empty waste bins on a daily basis.

And the ants are noticeable.

Like crawling over my bed.

And in the bedroom chest of drawers where our clothes are.

Today we went for a leisurely stroll along the beach. Quite crowded but of course it’s the locals day off so it would be. The beach is really nice. Long, wide and has beautiful soft sand. We were reaching the far end of the beach when I noticed this old man paddling along the water’s edge towards us. There was something not quite right about him but in the distance it was difficult for me to establish why I thought this. As he got closer I said to Pauline, “I think this old fool has forgotten his shorts.”

“Oh my God, this is the nudist beach,” she suddenly shouted.

And it was.

We were just at the beginning of it and I’d already paddled past quite a few nudists lying on the beach without even realising it. (It was me who didn’t realise it, not the nudists, they obviously realised they were lying on the beach, well not obviously, obviously, some of them could have been lying there as a result of some wild evening which left them incapable of knowing where they were). Mind you, all the women looked like lesbians and most of the men were gay. Mixed couples were definitely in the minority.

This evening we picked a different restaurant. Hopefully we can eat out in a different one every night of the holiday, unless that is we find one that’s so superb, so friendly, so cheap and so relaxing that we’ll want to eat there again and again.

No chance of that.

We ordered red wine. The waiter bustled up with an ice bucket and a bottle of white wine. We sent him away.

Pauline ordered chicken breast. The waiter bustled up with a chicken leg.We sent him away.

(Look, I know what you’re thinking. He didn’t really have one normal leg and one chicken leg, that would be ridiculous, he was perfectly normal.) 

Menorca 2003 - Day 4

The ants have just walked off with two bread rolls. Just hoisted them on their shoulders and off they went.

Didn’t do a thing today except read, eat, read, drink, eat, read and drink.

The weather’s really hot. The sort of heat that forces me into the shade for most of the day and just sitting or lying down makes the sweat run off me in small rivers.

And it’s no better at night.

For me it’s like sleeping on a wet flannel or on a water bed that’s lost its plastic cover. Has anyone ever drowned in their own sweat? I could be the first. As I write this, the paper’s getting soggier and soggier, the sun’s beating down and I think my body’s slowly filling up with perspiration. It’s running out of my eyes.

Look out; a pot plant’s moving across the floor.

Why do the ants want that?

We never see Dan and Emma much before 1 pm when they stumble around, have their breakfast and wander out to the pool or the beach for the rest of the day.

This morning we seem to have run out of calor gas. The gas faded away just as Pauline was preparing to cook Dan and Emma’s breakfast but not to worry the instructions left in the apartment are simple and straightforward. All I’ve got to do is disconnect the old cylinder and reconnect to the new cylinder. The instructions actually said ‘ Unclip the regulator from the old cylinder, push down and click onto new cylinder’ Piece of cake. Easy peasy.

I did as it said. Pauline turned on the gas and lit it. It spurted into life and immediately fizzled out again.

The bastards here before us had obviously used up one cylinder and just left it empty instead of replacing it, leaving us with no spare, so Pauline went out to the local phone box, rang the agent and they said, “Don’t worry, we’ll send David, he’ll be round shortly.”

David soon arrived with a brand new gas cylinder. He started to check out the one that I’d re-connected and said, “That’s funny, this one seems full.”

Uh oh, here we go, I thought, I haven’t connected it incorrectly have I?

David disconnected and reconnected the cylinder, lit the gas and it spurted into life. “It definitely went out before,” said Pauline.

“Looks OK now,” said David gathering his bits and pieces together. He gave me one of those tradesman’s looks, you know, the one where they look at you and wordlessly say something like, in my case, “Can’t you even do a simple thing like change a calor gas cylinder?”

Then, to the relief of us all, except David, the gas fizzled out again and while I was jumping up and down, punching the air and shouting, “Yes, Yes”, David reluctantly had another brainwave. “Probably the regulator,” he said, “haven’t got one with me so I’ll be back later.” Off he went and we were left without gas. Didn’t mind though, at least it wasn’t something stupid I’d done or not done. That showed him, bloody know-all. In the event, David showed up about an hour later, fixed the new regulator and everything was fine.

To give you an idea of the total inactivity of the day, that was the highlight.

Tonight at our evening meal we were sitting a couple of tables away from a couple with three kids; the oldest was probably four or five years old. All through the meal one or other of the kids escaped and ran off the terrace and out into the street. Every time I looked up I saw either the mum or the dad struggling back into the restaurant with a squirming child in their arms.

They were lucky the kids weren’t more organised. If all three of them had made a break for it at the same time the parents would have stood no chance.

Menorca 2003 - Day 5

It was very hot day today, too hot to do anything apart from lying and sitting around.

Come the evening and it was still hot, really hot with no breeze or air movement whatsoever. The sweat emerged at the top of my head and gathered momentum until it all finished in my shoes. I was a walking waterfall. We arrived at the restaurant and they showed us to a table at the back of the open air eating area up against the side of the restaurant where there was even less cooling air movement. Emma, Dan and even Pauline had acknowledged that it was really quite warm. We all squelched into our chairs and the waiter came up.

He was sweating more than I was. His shirt was stained, his hair was lank and his face just dribbled sweat. As I sat there dripping, watching him drip we suddenly thought we might be more comfortable at a table further away from the building, more into the roadside area where there might be the chance of the odd breeze from a passing car. We asked to be moved. The waiter shrugged his shoulders sending a tidal wave of perspiration down his arms and said in Spanish, “I don’t think it will make any bloody difference where you sit, wherever you sit, it will still be bloody hot.” Well that’s what I thought he said anyway.

But we insisted and helping the waiter to move our entire cutlery, bottles, glasses etc. we moved over to a new table and sat down.

A couple already sitting at a table next to the one we’d just moved to looked at us and the man said to me with a grin, “It doesn’t make any difference. It’s psychological. You’ll still be bloody sweating.”

And we were. And we did. All except Pauline who doesn’t sweat, she doesn’t even perspire politely and can exist quite happily in temperatures far exceeding the highest temperatures ever reached in the hottest place in the world…ever.

All I could think of for the rest of the meal was; if the waiters were sweating so much out front, what must it be like out the back in the kitchens.

Who knows what liquid our paella was finally cooked in? It doesn’t bear thinking about does it?

Menorca 2003 - Day 6

Today we’ve decided to go to Mahon, the capital of the island. It’s only a 30 minute bus ride away and after managing to persuade Emma that it will be worth the effort of getting up before 1 pm she’s reluctantly agreed to come as well.

It’s another very hot day and it’s a relief to get on the bus with its air conditioning. Our apartment hasn’t got air conditioning and I miss it. I’m not meant to be in hot countries without air conditioning. I can’t function properly. I’m too pre-occupied with mopping my brow and every five minutes, saying to Pauline, “God, it’s hot isn’t it?” If I had my way I’d move my bed into the nearest air conditioned shop and sleep there. Maybe if I stay asleep long enough the ants will do it for me, then I’ve got someone to blame if I’m thrown out.

I must remember to wear my sun hat today but having washed it just before coming away it seems to have shrunk slightly. I mean it hasn’t shrunk so much that I have to wear it at a jaunty angle with elastic under my chin like those miniature party hats you get at Christmas but the headband feels just that little bit too tight and makes the hat feel like a furnace.

I don’t understand why sun hats, which are supposed to keep the sun off your head and consequently keep you cool, do just the opposite. You put a sun hat on and it just makes you feel hotter and hotter until you’re spending all your time taking it off to cool down then putting it back on to keep the sun off your head in case you feel hot only to take it off again in order to cool down.

Where’s the sense in all that?

Mahon was an interesting place.

I’d take my hat off to cool down, Dan would do the same.

I’d say, “Jesus, it’s hot.” Dan would do the same.

I’d put my hat back on, Dan would do the same.

Eventually we decided to stop for a snack and a drink. We found a bar with twelve tables outside, all occupied but as we approached, one table became vacant. We sat down. It still contained the remnants of the previous customer, glasses, bottles, sticky table surfaces and the saucer containing their bill along with the loose change they’d left as their tip. We sat for a while until Emma said, “Is he going to serve us?”

“Just be patient,” I said, “things are taken at a slower pace here. He’s seen us, I expect he’ll get round to us eventually.”

A few minutes passed and Emma said, “He hasn’t seen us, he hasn’t registered we’re here.”

“Yes he has, don’t worry,” I said.

Ten minutes later we were still sitting there. The waiter had been in and out, serving, cleaning and clearing tables but not once had he ventured anywhere near us. Not even to clear the table and perhaps more importantly, to pick up the tip. He must think we’re the people who have just finished and just haven’t left the table yet. I’ll just have to attract his attention. The waiter would emerge from the bar and purposefully serve somebody or clear away some debris while I sat twisting and turning in my seat trying to attract his attention by waving at him.

A couple of Spanish women strolled up to an empty table, sat down and immediately got his attention. The waiter served them and strolled away again. Another couple arrived and got served straight away. What’s going on?

“Oh this is ridiculous,” I said, “let’s just go and find somewhere else. He’s just not making eye contact with anyone, how am I supposed to attract his attention?”

“Shout at him,” said Pauline.

“I’m not going to shout at him,” I said.

“Oh for goodness sake,” she said, “Ola!”

The waiter looked up, came over and started to clear our table as if nothing was wrong.

“Right,” I said, “dos San Miguel, uno café con leche, uno agua. Uno bacon roll and tres tortilla Espanol por favour.”

“Si,” he said, writing it all down and he walked away.

A few minutes later he was back with the beer, the coffee but with a coke instead of the water. Off he went to replace the coke with water. Five to ten minutes later the waiter returned with one Spanish omelette which he gave to Pauline and one bacon roll for Dan. Off he went again.

“I expect he’s gone back for the other two Spanish omelettes,” I said to Emma. The minutes passed and there was no sign of him. By now I’d finished my coffee. “He must have thought I said one instead of three omelettes,” I said to Pauline, “I’ll get him over again.”

So there we were, trying to attract the attention of this damn waiter who wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone so all my waving and body language made absolutely no difference to the bloody waiter who was intent on not serving us yet again.

“You’ll have to shout at him again, like I did,” said Pauline.

“I’m not going to shout,” I said.

“Ola!” said Pauline.

The waiter looked up and came over like a shot.

“Er, dos tortilla Espanol,” I said, pointing at Emma’s and my empty place setting, “and encore café con lec……….” But before I could finish ordering the coffee he was off like lightning again.

Hearing me talking to myself about another coffee, Pauline said, “You’d better ask for the bill when he comes back with the omelettes or we’ll be here all day.”

“I can’t do that,” I said, “when he comes back I’ve still got to order my coffee and he’ll be off like a bloody bullet in between me saying coffee and bill before you know it. I’ll ask for the bill when he brings me the coffee.”

So back he came with the omelettes.

Café con leche,” I said.

“Si,” he said.

Back came the coffee.

“La quenta,” I said.

“Si,” he said.

Back came the bill.

No problems. Another perfect end to another perfect meal eh?

Pity it took most of the afternoon.

Spent what was left of the afternoon with some more sightseeing and booked ourselves onto a tour of Mahon harbour in a glass-bottomed boat. Now I’ve never been on a glass-bottomed boat before and I must admit I was looking forward to it. I also had this expectation that a glass-bottomed boat would have the bottom of the boat completely made out of glass. But did it? No. In fact, although the boat trip was interesting, the boat only had a small area of glass bottom, probably about two feet square and which everybody had to huddle round in order to look down at the ocean floor below. Bit of an anti-climax really.

I bought myself a new sun hat, the same size as the one I was wearing but obviously not as shrunk. It felt a lot more comfortable to wear but I still had to keep taking it off to cool down. So what was the point in getting it eh?

Menorca is famous for its cheese, so much so that they even have cheese flavoured ice cream. Emma wanted me to try it but I just couldn’t face it. I had ‘figs’ ice cream instead and very nice it was too. Certainly gave me a good run for my money.

Menorca 2003 - Day 7

This holiday has proved to be the laziest one so far. Relieved of the responsibility of keeping Emma interested and amused, all I seem to be doing is getting up late and spending the rest of the day sitting and reading, lying down and reading, eating and reading and drinking and reading. Pauline is relaxing in her own way by getting up early, swimming, sunbathing, reading, eating sensibly, drinking and cooking (but only breakfast and the odd snack for Emma and Dan).

While swimming underwater in the pool today Emma lashed out and managed to hit a young lad in the face. He probably deserved it.

It’s a bit cooler today. I feel quite comfortable wearing a T-shirt for a change.

Amongst all the restaurants where we’re staying is a “Hawaiian” bar which Emma has taken a shine to and would like to go to at some point. It’s her sixteenth birthday on Saturday and we’re not sure where we want to go or what we want to do. We’ve left it to Emma to decide. She would have liked to have eaten out at the “Hawaiian” bar but they don’t serve meals only drinks. It does, however have waiters and waitresses on roller skates and the drinks are served up in huge buckets with ten feet straws sticking out of them. Emma tells me that you can keep the straws. In fact you can tell when someone has been to the “Hawaiian” bar; they’re always walking along with a cheap paper garland around their neck and a ten foot straw in their hand. Quality souvenirs of their visit and something to show their friends back home I suppose. I’ll be able to tell you more about this exotic place when we go there for a drink on Saturday.

Can’t wait.

Cheese and jam salad on the menu tonight. Mmmm-Mmmmm.

Menorca 2003 - Day 8

We took the bus into Alaior this morning. Alaior is the third most important village on the island and is an industrial centre for milk products and footwear. I wanted to buy a pair of Menorcan flat, slipper-like sandals called Abarcas. Apparently worn by peasants for centuries (not the same pair obviously) so Alaior, famous for its footwear, seemed the only place to go then!

Alaior turned out to be a lovely old village, very quiet and surprisingly non-touristy. There were lots of small shops tucked away down side streets but not all grouped together, maybe one or two in each street you came across. We found quite a few shoe shops but none seemed to sell the sandals that Alaior was so famous for. They can’t just make them for the fun of it and then throw them away. They must sell them somewhere mustn’t they?

We had about four hours before the bus left at 2.15 pm and by midday we hadn’t found a single shop anywhere selling these damn sandals. Pauline even took the guide book into a shoe shop and pointed to the word Abarcas but the soppy girl in the shop just shrugged her shoulders. What’s going on? Something that they’re so famous for making just didn’t seem to exist. Perhaps they made it all up to get silly tourists like me running around in circles trying to find them.

Feeling hot and tired we eventually sat down in a tree-shaded square and thought about what we should do next. We decided that it might be worth trying to ask one of the many groups of locals who were gathered in little groups on various benches scattered around the square. The trouble was most of the people were quite old and Pauline thought that it might be better if we asked a younger person as they might speak a little more English than the old folk. She suddenly approached a youngish looking bloke who was strolling through the square in some sort of uniform and carrying a clipboard. He looks like he’ll know what we’re talking about I thought. He turned out to be a postman and as Pauline pointed to the description of the sandals in the guidebook (in Spanish I might add); he looked puzzled and scratched his head. I don’t know why you’re looking so puzzled mate, I thought, you make the bloody things here don’t you?

He pondered, then he turned to three or four old people on a bench. They all shouted away in Spanish for a while when all of a sudden one of the elderly men came over to us and said, “Speak Espanola?”

Pauline said, “A little.”

The old chap said, “A leetle? OK.”

He then proceeded to tell us exactly where to go to get these sandals in perfect Spanish. It was a joy to listen to him and we nodded and said Si in all the right places and didn’t understand a word. Well I didn’t, Pauline thought he’d indicated that we had to go outside the village to an industrial estate somewhere but she got no further than that.

We said, “Gracias” and made to walk away in the general direction that he had been pointing in when he suddenly got to his feet again and started to tell us in perfect Spanish about what seemed to be a shortcut. He was describing an archway with his hands and telling us to go under it but we didn’t really know where this archway was or even how far away we were talking about. We thanked him again and started to wander aimlessly out of the square.

“I expect they’ll talk about this for years to come,” I said, “it may even be passed down by word of mouth into Menorcan folklore about the crazy band of foreign people on a quest for the Golden Sandals of Menorca and how one old man succeeded in diverting them away from the Sandal’s source by telling them to look for the Silver Archway of Leather Goods which of course did not exist.”

As we left the square, an old dear suddenly popped up in front of me and said, “Bocadillos, café.”

It was so sudden I stopped, looked at her for a second or two, completely bemused.

Why was she saying “Sandwiches, coffee” to me?

Should I reply with “Spanish omelette, brandy”?

Was she giving me a code?

Was she a loony?

Had she seen us talking or more to the point, listening to that old Spanish bloke about sandals and made the enormous leap of judgement to assume we were looking for somewhere to eat? Pauline just showed her the guide book with the magic word Abarcas but the old dear just peered at it and shrugged like every other bugger had done since we’d got here.

“No, helados a la casa,” she said.

Ice cream at her house? What the hell is she going on about? “OK, gracias,” we said and moved away as quickly as we could without hurting her feelings.

Was she lonely and just wanted us to go round her house for tea? We’ll never know will we?

Time was, by now, flying by. It was about 12.30 pm and I still wanted to buy those damn sandals but we were all getting hungry and thirsty. The shops would be closing at 1 pm and the bus would be leaving at 2.15 pm so it was one last desperate search for the sandals and then something to eat. We started to look for the Silver Archway of Leather Goods, down one street, up the next. I still couldn’t quite believe that they would make these bloody sandals and then make it virtually impossible to buy them but it was certainly beginning to look like it. By this time we’d stopped outside yet another shoe shop that didn’t sell them and didn’t know what the hell we wanted when we suddenly noticed that the walkway beside the shop rose up in steps under, you’ll never guess, a sort of arch. It was at this point that, if it had been a film, we would have all looked up at the archway with benign smiles on our faces while the Hallelujah Chorus played in the background.

But it wasn’t and we didn’t and it didn’t.

“Let’s just go up here and see where it goes,” Pauline said, “the shops will be shutting soon anyway.” The steps led up to a very attractive courtyard and fountain and then down again the other side into another maze of little streets. Across the road from the steps we’d just walked down was a tiny leather goods shop and in the window amongst all the handbags, belts and shoes were The Sandals. I bought a pair and whether we’d actually stumbled onto the very shop, through the very arch that the old chap was trying to tell us about before, we’ll never know. But it’s nice to think that the crazy foreign people did end their quest for the Golden Sandals of Menorca by discovering the Silver Archway of Leather Goods in the end and ended up paying through the nose for the privilege.

It was now past 1 pm so we decided to go back and eat in a restaurant/café by the bus stop so we could take a bit more time over our meal. The only menu was displayed outside and in Spanish. No concessions to tourists here and quite right too. We all decided on a snack, there wasn’t any time for the meal of the day – two courses including wine and bread for 9 Euros – and ordered some bocadillos. The place was quite empty and seemed even emptier because there was a very large bar area and an even larger restaurant area where the tables were all laid up for any meal of the day customers. Our bocadillos were served up, basically half a French loaf with appropriate fillings, and we settled down. About fifteen minutes later, all of a sudden, men started bursting through the front doors laughing, chattering and shouting and made their way straight through the bar and into the restaurant.

More men arrived and then more. It was just as if they’d locked the restaurant doors until all these people were milling around outside and the were allowed in, a bit like the January sales. The men were all obviously from some work place nearby and they all bustled in, had their meal of the day, crammed back into the bar for their coffees and then burst back out and were gone again. I noticed a lot of them wearing the ‘sandals’ so where on earth were they buying theirs from?

We finished our snacks and went outside to sit at the bus stop. Across the road from us a lady with her daughter got into their car which had been completely boxed in. There were literally only a few inches front and back of her. She obviously wouldn’t be able to get out. The lady got out of the car, checked the vehicles front and back to see if they were locked, looked at their number plates and got back in and started her car. She reversed into the car behind and rolled forward into the car in front but after repeating this a few times she gave up. She got out, walked the short distance to the café we’d just left, went in and then came out again. As she reached her car a man appeared. I thought he was going to move his car but he just started to try and help the lady manoeuvre out of her space. She started the car again. Forward bump, reverse bump, full lock forward bump, full lock reverse bump. This went on and on with the man standing there waving her forward and backwards. He needn’t have bothered as all she was doing was driving backwards and forwards until she hit the cars anyway. After a while it was becoming obvious to both the man and the woman that they weren’t really getting anywhere like this but by this time there were now three or four other men standing around the car just watching the poor woman struggling. All of a sudden, one of these other men said something and they all bent down and lifted the front of the woman’s car clear of the car in front and stood back laughing. The people at the bus stop, including us, burst into a spontaneous round of applause, the lady smiled and waved at us, the men laughed some more and the lady drove off with her daughter smiling and waving at us from the back of the car.

I will be wearing my authentic ancient peasant’s sandals tonight.

The peasant’s not too happy about it though.

Menorca 2003 - Day 9

Today is Emma’s sixteenth birthday.

We’ve brought her presents with us, along with some candles and a birthday banner. She wanted to be woken up at 9.30 am so as not to waste too much of the day and wants to spend the day on the beach and hire a pedalo. Hiring a pedalo sounds a bit ominous to me. I’ve never been much of a pedalo man really, you hire them by the hour and after what seems like 45 minutes of pedalling and getting nowhere fast, you look at your watch and find it’s only been 5 minutes since you left the beach. Anyway we all got up early by 9.30 am and settled down so that Emma could open her presents and cards. It seemed a little strange as this was the first time that Emma had spent her birthday away from home but it was soon over and we were all on our way to the beach. Emma and Dan had both bought Li-Los earlier on in the holiday but on the way down to the beach, down a dirt track, Emma caught her Li-Lo on a thorny bush which punctured it and became the first birthday downer of the day. At sixteen your birthday should be just perfect, in fact at any age your birthday should be perfect shouldn’t it? But the younger you are the more important it is. So with no Li-Lo for the beach Emma was understandably miserable. “Don’t worry, we’ll buy another one,” Pauline told her, “Let’s get down to the beach first. I’ll buy it later.”

We reached the beach and now the search was on to hire a pedalo. But we weren’t looking for an ordinary pedalo. Oh no. Emma had seen these things which had a water slide built onto them, a bit like a double-decker boat, and she wanted one of those. Now pedalling a small plastic boat out in the ocean is not a terribly easy task, it takes a bit of effort, so just imagine trying to pedal a double-decker bus! But hang on, we aren’t there yet. First we have to find the double-decker pedalo to hire. Along the whole stretch of the beach were three pedalo men, evenly spaced out and each with their own territory. We reached pedalo man number one who didn’t have any that Emma wanted. We carried on to pedalo man number two who had one but it had just been taken. We trekked along the beach to the far end (just before the nudists started to embarrass everyone) and discovered that pedalo man number three didn’t have any double-decker ones available either.

By this time it was between 12 and 1 pm and what is the sun like at that time of day? Quite hot really isn’t it? I was struggling along at the back with Emma, Dan and Pauline striding out in front of me when someone decided that we would all turn around and go back up along the beach we’d just spent ages walking down. We were strolling along the water’s edge so despite the heat it was all quite pleasant but looking for a specific pedalo to hire was not my idea of a good time. We came back past the second pedalo man – no double-deckers. Then Pauline suddenly saw in the distance, one of these damn pedaloes being pedalled into shore. “There,” she shouted, “quick, it’s the only one, we’ll have to try and get it before someone else does.” So it was onwards at a hair-raising speed, back to the very first pedalo man that we’d passed hours ago and, yes, he had one of those huge slide on a boat things just coming in. We paid the man and I got my first glimpse of the pedalo up close.

It was like a bloody ocean liner. It seemed huge. There was room on board for a swimming pool, hairdressers, cafe and ballroom. The pedalo man held it steady while Emma, Dan and Pauline were winched on board and I was lowered down by helicopter. Once aboard, Pauline and I started to pedal so that Dan and Emma could enjoy using the slide which rose above our heads and plummeted down the front of the pedalo and into the water.

Now pedalling a pedalo, apart from not being a very good tongue twister, is a very tiring business. It always seems like a good idea at the time but after ten minutes of pedalling you’re near to collapse, you’ve got cramp in your calves and your feet are getting sore. And if you stop pedalling for just one second you’ve had it. You just drift away back to where you’ve just spent 10 minutes pedalling from. There are people swimming to the left of you, people swimming to the right of you and other pedalos looming up all around you when you’re not concentrating on where you’re going. I noticed a definite look of fear in the eyes of the swimmers as we approached them and then managed to drift so close to them that they almost had heart attacks on the spot.

Still, Emma and Dan had a good time and that’s what it was all about in the end.

For tonight’s birthday meal Emma wants to go back to one of the places we’ve been to before and to then move on to the ‘Hawaiian’ bar afterwards. We had our meal, Emma didn’t know whether to have fillet steak or pizza and in the end opted for pizza. We had a quiet word with the waitress and at the end of the meal she brought Emma’s dessert to the table with the usual sparkler stuck in the top and spluttering away. The lights were dimmed and we all sang happy birthday. Aaaaah. Then it was off to the ‘Hawaiian’ bar.

It was a large open area with a variety of different Hawaiian style wicker tables, chairs, armchairs, sofas and even those two-seater chairs that are suspended from the ceiling. It was purely a cocktail bar and the most popular choice seemed to be the various cocktails that could be ordered for a specific number of people who then all drank the same drink from a communal container the size of a punch bowl, decorated with a couple of pounds of fruit. Each individual had a three foot straw precariously sticking out of the container along with a few shorter ones about half this length.

We didn’t want to order one of these things for two reasons: One – Emma doesn’t like alcohol so would have to have something else anyway and Two – I didn’t want to look like a plonker sipping from a three foot straw like everyone else. So we all ordered individual drinks and whereas our s came up looking fairly mundane and ordinary, Emma’s non-alcoholic fruit juice punch thankfully came up with the requisite three foot straws waving about in the breeze. I say thankfully, because apart from the roller skating waiters it was the three foot straws that appealed to Emma and if she hadn’t had one it would have spoilt her birthday.

Our cocktails were about a fiver a throw and mine just tasted of sugar water to me. It occurred to me as I sat there watching all these idiots with three foot straws that perhaps I should have ordered one. I’m sure I could have moved my straw around the tables from where I was sitting and drank every other persons drink without them knowing. And if I joined half a dozen or so together, I could have a drink in every bar along the road without ever leaving my chair.