Lanzarote

I am lying on a sun-bed and a stray oleander petal drifts past my foot. Someone jumps in the pool and I am briefly splashed. Tall, skinny palm trees tower over the pool. A single cypress with a knobbly trunk stands guard at the hotel entrance. The sky is a clear, pale blue. There is a wall of volcanic rock behind us, topped by a glass screen blocking the constant island breeze.

A pigeon approaches, looking expectantly under my bed for crumbs. He is disappointed and flies off. Most of the other guests surrounding the pool are middle-aged and — how can I put this politely? — portly. Madam doesn’t let me use fat or overweight anymore in the interests of political correctness. She’ll probably make me delete those as well.

We are having a couple of weeks in Puerto del Carmen in Lanzarote so that Madam can lie in the sun and slowly roast. I’m in the shade under a parasol, carefully moving my body around to stay out of the sun. I check the weather forecast for England and see temperatures in the mid and high 20s, about the same as here.

I’m reading The Island by Victoria Hislop. I’ve been meaning to read it for a while and, by chance, there was a copy in the hotel library. The library is two waist-high bookcases overflowing with books. All are in English.

I’ve reached the bit in the book about the leprosy colony on Spinalonga. Reading about the effects of the disease and the treatment of lepers makes me glad that they found a cure. The book includes a quote from the Bible:

“And the leper in whom the plague is, his clothes shall be rent and his head bared and he shall put a covering upon his upper lip and shall cry Unclean, Unclean,”

That doesn’t sound very Christian to me.

Madam interrupts my reading to apply a liberal coating of sun block to her back. I’m tempted to tell her it’s easier to just stay in the shade, but I remain quiet.

Later, she lowers herself into the pool and swims leisurely around it, watched by a bored lifeguard. The lifeguard has to watch over two pools at opposite ends of the hotel, which doesn’t bode well if you are drowning in the wrong pool.

In the evening we walk down the Avenida de las Playas and find a restaurant with decent reviews. The waiter is English. The menu is in English. They have bingo starting at 9:30.

‘I’m going to be difficult,’ says Madam to the waiter.

I brace myself.

‘Okay,’ replies the waiter hesitantly.

‘I’ll have the steak, medium, but no chips.’

The waiter’s expression suggests he isn’t entirely sure it’s legal to serve steak without chips.

‘And the vegetables?’

‘What do you have?’

‘Mixed vegetables.’

‘What’s in that?’

‘Carrots, broccoli and cauliflower.’

‘I don’t like cauliflower.’

She thinks for a moment. ‘He can have the cauliflower,’ she says, pointing at me.

‘And mushy peas. I want mushy peas.’

A look of consternation crosses the waiter’s face. He quickly realises Madam is not to be argued with.

‘Certainly.’

‘I’ll have the fish and chips please, and maybe a beer,’ I say.

He looks at Madam, then at me and says, ‘I’ll get you a large beer.’

We don’t stay for the bingo.

After dinner we walk further along the seafront. They are preparing for an Ironman race later in the week and the promenade is busy with organisers setting up. Vans and tents block the pavement. We dodge groups of tourists, some of whom may have overdone the evening aperitifs. A narrow bike lane runs alongside the promenade, so we are constantly watching for speeding cyclists.

Eventually we find a stretch of beach for tomorrow that meets Madam’s exacting requirements for a day on the beach. Sun beds positioned so that she can’t see anyone else. Soft sand. No rocks. Definitely no rocks. Not even the suggestion of rocks. Toilets within a stone’s throw. Shops across the road. Highly rated lunch places within three minutes’ walk.

We are both exhausted after a long day of lying by the pool, so we head back to the hotel for an early night.

The saga continues in Puerto del Carmen