Puerto del Carmen

Madam isn’t up to the beach today, so we have a short walk after breakfast before heading down to the hotel pool.

We are just getting comfortable when there’s a loud crack from the other side of the pool as an extremely large man lowers himself onto a sun bed. The front end gives way and he slides to the ground in slow motion, like a collapsing bridge in a disaster film. His wife rushes over and helps haul him upright. He drags the broken bed to one side and sinks into another which bends but manages to stay intact. I know I’m being judgemental here, but if you reach the point where garden furniture starts failing structural integrity tests beneath you, perhaps it’s time to seek medical help.

We lie here for a while. I continue reading ‘The Island’ and finish yesterday’s blog entry while Madam alternates between sunbathing, swimming and reading. The pool area has developed the strange timeless atmosphere unique to package holidays. People rotate slowly on sun beds like supermarket chickens under heat lamps, occasionally lowering themselves into the water before returning to continue the process.

Around lunchtime Madam declares herself hungry and orders a club sandwich from the hotel bar. When it arrives it looks less like a sandwich and more like a catering project. Madam announces it’s the best club sandwich she’s ever had. She manages half of it before surrendering and wrapping the remains for later.

I soon get bored lying by the pool so I head out for a walk along the seafront leaving Madam to sunbathe.

I go down to the beach and walk along the sand. It’s soft and awkward to walk on at first, dragging at my feet like it actively resents my progress, but closer to the water it firms up into smooth damp sand that’s easier going. The sea is calm and inviting, a deep clear blue that looks painted on. Several people are wading in the shallows or swimming further out at sea. The air smells of sunscreen, salt and hot sand. Every few yards somebody lies spread out on a towel slowly cooking themselves to a lobster colour. Aftersun lotion will sell well tomorrow.

I reach the end of the beach and climb up towards the road leading to the harbour. By now the heat is pressing down like a warm hand on the back of my neck, I’m sweating and my T-shirt is sticking to me. I put a dab of sun block on this morning but now I’m regretting not applying more.

The harbour itself is disappointing. I suppose I’d imagined a picturesque little fishing port with colourful boats bobbing gently on sparkling water, old fishermen repairing nets and perhaps a weather-beaten cat sleeping beside a crate of sardines. Instead, it’s mostly grim concrete walls, industrial units and the sort of atmosphere associated with ferry terminals.

There are a couple of attractive-looking restaurants overlooking the water, but large signs at the entrance warn of minimum charges. Nothing says “warm island hospitality” quite like being threatened financially before you’ve even looked at the menu.

I wander through part of the old town. The online guides describe it as charming and scenic, there are a few nice streets, but most of it feels run down and depressing. Groups of young men walking the streets are far more interested in locating the next pint than admiring local culture or sights.

I walk back along Avenida de las Playas, which is an uninterrupted mile of restaurants serving identical food and shops selling identical Chinese tat. Every few yards there’s another Irish pub wedged between souvenir shops and restaurants. O’Reilly’s, O’Callaghan’s, O’Grady’s, O’Sullivan’s, O’Fuck Another Irish pub.

I may have misremembered some of the names.

I’m soon flagging from the long walk in the sun so I am forced to stop for an ice cream to replenish my strength. Some days you just have to give in.

They are still adding to the facilities for the Iron Man event tomorrow. Groups of men wearing lycra stretched over their muscled and fit looking bodies are standing around polishing their bicycles or comparing outfits. Several of them are discussing hydration strategies with an intensity normally reserved for political discussions. I avoid going too close as I don’t want to embarrass them with my lithe and muscle-free body.

I get back to the hotel and Madam doesn’t appear to have moved since I left. She is already thinking about dinner.