I also figured that this would give me time to pack and avoid the usual last minute panic in which I find myself. Naturally, things didn't work out quite that way, and I was still tracking down rogue items of underwear as the driver was thumping on my door in an impatient fashion. As it was, I only forgot toothpaste and a hair-brush. Well below my usual suitcase misdemeanours.
The airport was predictably hellish. A huge stag party dressed as Groucho Marx (individually; collectively would have been more interesting) occupied the check-in staff before I dragged what I laughably was pretending was hand-lugguage to the desk. British Airways eyed the thiny disguised suitcase and insisted it go in the hold. I cursed the stag party that had made this woman take her annoyance out on me, extracted valuables from the bag and bid it farewell in the faintly tearful fashion I reserve for luggage that I know I'll never see again and headed to the boarding gate.
The flight was thankfully uneventful. No back problems (which bodes well for Canada) and a truly awful in-flight mean (improving on the 'inedible' that was thrown at we undeserving passengers on the way to and from Amsterdam.)
I stepped off the plane into a hurricane. The blue sky and bone warming heat that I'd been hoping to find had been replaced by a chill only really known by the Scottish.
It was cold. Windy. And raining.
Even the sea looked unhappy to see me. And judging by the state of the shore there'd been either a visitation of a serious seagull, or the makers of the first Scary Movie.
This, my friends, is why I never swim in the sea. Particularly around here. Just think what must lurking in the water to coat the coast in what appears to be orange marshmallow.
However, the lady who'd collected me (more on her later) had invested in some local gin, which when mixed with tonic more than made up for the weather and selected a nearby restaurant with a menu to make vegetarians shudder. So all was well with the world.
Day 2 saw more venturing out. Still windy, still cold, but at last a blue sky. I pottered about the cliffs and looked at the sea. Its an eerie place; like a British seaside resort, except you know that in 6 months time the place will be alive; shuttered shops will open, and holiday-makers will frolic amongst the scum in the sea. Not like a British holiday resort (aside from the scum in the sea bit.)
Lacking an Isle-Of-Man-esque epiphany, we explored some of the old towns. Long time readers will know that I'm sucker for narrow alleyways (I mean, I live down one for goodness sake) and it didn't take long to find an eatery sited in an old blacksmith's forge. Hearty local fayre was consumed along with a bottle or two of the local wine. This was naturally followed by a slightly unsteady wobble back to house and a 14 hour sleep.
And, as is the way of things, the weather turned on the last day. I poked around an old church (where had everyone gone? Lots of cars parked, but no-one around.) Did some touristy stuff and enjoyed the best steak I've had for... ooooh.... about 6 years.
And then today, I had to come home. I'd become rather attached to the place - mainly because it appears that my laptop didn't work, so my employer couldn't get hold of me. But it was awfully pretty.
I also learnt the benefits of being a bastard. I checked in about as late as possible and so for the second time in my life, found myself bumped up to First-Class. This struck me as a little unfair on all the people who'd followed the rules and checked-in on time. There was me, late, sipping champagne and nibbling filet-mignon while the proles behind were having cardboard boxes of mystery meat thrust at them.
Tough life, eh?
Sadly no pole-dancing stewardesses. I understand thats only if you fly Virgin.
I really am going to have to make this decision soon, you know...
