Thirty-Three

So on my second week off all is good. The new Belle & Sebastian record is released which I buy from the friendly guy at Rough Trade West. Even the news is good; 33 Chilean miners successfully rescued months earlier than anticipated. I'm feeling relaxed and look at the tension around me in a bemused fashion; the cyclist arguing with the car driver, the girls playing truant shouting at the policemen that they don't understand, repeatedly, as they try and think up a plausible story. I'm sailing by on all this free time. And who's that over there? I could swear it's Richard Dawkins standing at the station, by those Christian posters, you know the ones, they say 'Do you believe in God?' then they have three options: Yes, no, maybe. Dawkins has a big black marker pen and is frantically putting a big tick in the 'no' box and stamping his foot, like Rumplestiltskin being told we all know his name.

I go to visit my sister who has a new daughter, brand new, two weeks old when I turn up. Beautiful. Then I go to my parents' house. It's funny going home, funny walking the streets, it's like in the Magician's Nephew when they go to the ruins of the city with all the people turned to stone. Something happened here only it was a long time ago, and all the people who made the town what it was have disappeared. Some of the buildings and streets have changed, some of the landmarks are still here, but they're full of other, unknown people. Mind you, if I ventured further than the distance between the station and my parents' house I might see someone from the old days.

The week back at work starts OK - whatever was I worried about? - but then it starts to decline. The news is bad, some fat cheeked fool announces the budget and the next thing you know Ian Duncan-Smith is on the television having a go at the Welsh. Telling them to get out of their town and to the job centre in Cardiff. Listen Duncan-Pillock, there is NOTHING written on those cards in the Job centre that could ever be called a job.

Then it's another early morning and I'm having trouble pushing the buttons through the button-holes on my shirt sleeves. Why does this stress me out so? Maybe I'll play truant, at least the police won't stop me.

Postcards from Ibiza (Part 3)

Being on holiday, you don’t need to be anywhere, you don’t need to rush but there’s still something inside pushing you along. If you took me to paradise I’d say this is perfect, where are we going next? I’m kind of fidgety, maybe we’re all like that? If the moment is perfect you still feel the need to leave it, because a perfect moment is always in danger of being made imperfect by outside forces, or by going on too long. So we lie on the beach in Portinatx, we lie on the beach in Santa Eularia, looking at the sun kissed Mediterranean sea calling out to us, then swim in the clear Mediterranean water, looking back at the beach calling out to us to come and dry off on its warm sand.

We do a bit of Kayaking. On the beach waiting for the party before us to come back to shore, I’m worried I’m not going to be able to control the Kayak. There’s a woman stuck only a few metres out. If I get stuck I want to be way out to sea. OK, no-one will see me to rescue me but more importantly, they won’t be able to stare, point and laugh. A couple of Kayakers return to shore, we put the life jackets on, and off we go. We’re soon getting the hang of it - I think I was born to do this - the beach is far behind us, we’re out to sea and bobbing about, the sound of hollow plastic hitting against the water.

I go on a mountain bike expedition. There are three of us, Josh, who’s 16 and from Dundee, who I like, we met him when we were playing table tennis and he immediately offered us his ping pong stuff. He’s friendly and good mannered and enjoying his two weeks in the sun. I think if you’re 16 the hotel must be ideal. Then there’s our leader, Stephen, who’s Dutch, and has a habit of saying: ‘Don’t die Josh’, or ‘How many times did you die out there?’ We travel 11 kilometres, starting off fast downhill, the hills ahead of us, then off-road into the forest covering the red-brown ground before hitting rocky ground. The suspension on this bike is amazing, I wouldn’t want to try this on my bike back home. We stop off to look over the cliffs.

"It's beautiful up here, yes?" says Stephen, as we look at the twinkling blue ocean below.

Below in the bay he points out the ghostly shell of a hotel, all the brick work but nothing more. Apparently it was half built then it was discovered the building was illegal as its owners had no planning permission. So it stays there unfinished, haunting an otherwise perfect bay.

We carry on up to the lighthouse where we stare over the cliffs. There is a lot of glass here from parties and a rusty car lies smashed on the rocks below. Our guide takes us to a bar in Portinatx where I get a well deserved fresh orange. Josh is knackered and decides he’s deserved a pint of San Miguel. Oh to be young again.

The guides like giving orders. Stephen guides us across the rocks telling us the best way to ride the bike, how to use the breaks, how to use the gears. When we finish for the morning, he’s still giving advice.

“OK, get a shower or take a dip in the pool.”

Slightly patronising, especially as I’ve been supervising my own showers since I was 34. But the guy’s OK, he’s got an interesting job; taking people out Kayaking and mountain biking, resting up in the afternoon and performing the shows in the evening, it beats the real world.

The real world, our real world is calling us. An evening in the Zulu lounge restaurant; drinking wine, watching the lights of the yachts in the bay, listening to the sea on the shore. A last day in the sun, schools of fish swimming around us and bumping into our feet. We’ll take these memories back with us, back to the English autumn.

Postcards from Ibiza (Part 2)

Another blue sky day and the stresses of the life we’ve made/fell into are falling away until we’ve nothing to worry about, apart from the insect bites (about 3 daily) and the fact the arm on my shades is loose so if I lean forwards they slip off my face. Important stuff.

Different characters at the hotel are making themselves apparent. There’s the posh couple who take a decanter of wine for dinner instead of a glass, the big couple who hang around the back for the entertainments looking non-plussed. Then there’s the big friendly-looking Scottish fellow, he looks a little like Buster Bloodvessel, who we see one time dive bombing into the swimming pool creating a tidal wave to wake the surrounding sunbathers.

We develop the theory that the hotel booze is so watered down you can’t get drunk on it. This is an all inclusive hotel, you can go in any time of day and get free drink yet we don’t really see anyone drunk. To put this to the test we order endless wine and settle down to watch the evening's entertainment. As we drink we notice a couple who fetch drinks by hopping in their socked feet to the bar. Surely this isn’t the behaviour of the sober? The entertainment consists of a themed evening, tonight 'Saturday Night Fever', that the cast dance and mime along to. This is better than it sounds, perhaps due to the hot Ibizian night, maybe down to Olivia, a long haired entertainer who's clearly relishing his role, and has a big booming voice he likes to employ regularly, introducing and closing the evening in four languages.

Before the clock has struck nine there’s people being sick in the toilets, disproving completely, the theory that you can't get drunk on the hotel booze. It's not us being sick, I should add, we’re busy applauding the evening's entertainment as if it’s the best thing we’ve ever seen, and right now, with this amount of free wine in us, it is.

Postcards from Ibiza

We are here in Ibiza chasing a last glimmer of summer, looking for sandy beaches drenched with sun and blue sky. We are staying in Portinatx in the north of the island, surrounded by the blue bay and green hills dense with pine trees. On first impression there are lots of tattooed people in our hotel, but they have rub on transfers for sale in the shop so there’s no need for us to feel left out. Portinatx has a great beach and the bay is beautiful, the only issue being the tacky English bars - there’s one called Delboy's - presumably here to cater for people suffering from culture shock.

Early in the week we take one of the four buses a day that go to Ibiza town. Us tourists all look out the bus windows eagerly, returning to the curious uncynical world of childhood, as we take in the views of our brand new world.

“Look sheep,” someone says, and we all look in wonder at these woolly creatures standing on a stretch of sun-scorched grass by the bridge we are crossing. Sheep, my English friends, are relatively small with crimped hair called wool and many have horns forming a lateral spiral. They are of a whitey-grey hue.

Ibiza town is quiet when we arrive, the rave kids have already gone home, or are asleep behind the drawn curtains of the hotels lining the promenade. I always think of foreign countries as places to eat gorgeous food; olives, fresh fish, grapes plucked from vines overhanging our restaurant seats. But it is harder to accomplish this: you have to avoid all the cafes offering English fry-ups. We come across a restaurant on the sea front selling delicious salads. The motherly olive-skinned waitress provides us with fresh bread and delicious home made aioli. We’re definitely coming back here.

On the way home there is plenty of excitement to look at out the bus windows. Helicopters fly overhead, huge orange pumpkin shaped buckets hanging from their framework, dropping water onto a forest fire. We look out the window excitedly, as one, the helicopters swooping to collect water from swimming pools and back over the pine forest to put out the flames.