I wish I could say ‘See you on the 6th!’ but typically our ferry was cancelled the day after the UK government permitted travel again, and we’d finally printed our tickets. Forty-five minutes waiting on the phone, and we managed to rebook for the following week. Different ship, different route. All this is in the hands of the gods of Mount Olympus, sitting there pushing us pawns around the gigantic chessboard of our lives, slapping their thighs gleefully with every move, togas swinging in the backdraught. I’m wondering what Zeus will do with the Spanish government’s Knight? Two squares forward and one to the side? They may have ended the state of alarm, but we ‘tourists’ are none the wiser. Our ferry was booked last July, long before it all went covid-shaped once again.
When the UK’s list of green countries awaiting us with open arms was announced, we sat studying the atlas out of curiosity, tears of laughter running down our faces. Aside from a couple of realistic possibles, the others needed a magnifying glass to be found, mostly uninhabited, and miles from anywhere. Tristan de Cunha. Only accessible by ship, no accommodation, and via a red country. The Sandwich Islands and South Georgia. Great if you like penguins and are a scientist. Others on the list won’t even allow outsiders in. We’re happily prepared for a ten day quarantine on returning from Spain, still on the amber list, as we did last year.
Will Spain allow us back in before our ship sails? Or will we need another re-booking?
We must wait for the veil of Isis to lift, and hope it will be a cheery ‘Si!’ sooner than later.
There are so many of us eagerly waiting our return; obviously those with second homes, and those who are desperate to jump on a plane and visit their relatives and friends living in Murcia and other regions. I’m sure I can speak for them all in saying;
‘We miss you all, lots!’
We particularly miss a plate of Galician octopus amid a tidal wave of tapas spilling over a condensation covered tabletop.
We’ve missed the joys of travel!
We did manage a walrus hunt.
No, we didn’t illegally board a survey vessel and head up to the ice floes. We drove an hour to see Wales’ Wally the Walrus, now in residence on Tenby lifeboat slipway, and having to be coaxed back into the water by the coxswain each time there’s an emergency ‘shout’ for fear of killing him. I kid you not. How he got there is anyone’s guess, but falling asleep on a melting iceberg seems a popular choice, although he probably just enjoys distance swimming. There’s even a beer named after him and he spends his days lounging on his ‘Wally Holiday’ while tourists take photos.
I’m hoping that will soon be me; flopped on a lounger at the water's edge, dipping in and out of the waves, and gulping down massive amounts of crustaceans.
