I seem to have got through the week so far without catching a cold, getting bad guts and the trots or developing pneumonia, all of which I’ve done here before. I’ve even managed to shake off the cough that I’ve had since the last time I was here. I was however for some reason rather irascible today. I couldn’t put my finger on it, I know it wasn’t because the end of the holiday was looming, at one time I could never really enjoy myself knowing it had to end. Now I look forward to the next day whatever it may bring. Coming home means seeing my children and grandchildren and my routine of village life. I should’ve died two and a half years ago so every day is a bonus and if it all ends tomorrow so what? So how come I was so tetchy?

I decided I had done enough walking for one week and so to rest my suffering feet, knees and back I got a cab down to Carol’s Red Rose Cafe. A warm welcome from Carol and Debbie the Geordie waitress. “Ee Gary how does Blaydon Races gan? I canna remember the words?” She was being hassled by some skandies singing Norse folk songs so we gave ’em some Blaydon Races back. Then a couple came in and sat down. “Two beers three euros!” the man ordered. Debbie gave me look and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you just love it when the customers tell you the price?” I asked her. I’m sure the staff are aware of their special offers, it’s pasted on the board outside. Then the same guy spotted another customer with a lap top open, probably writing a holiday blog moaning like I was. He went over to the blogger typing feverishly and asked him if he was logged into the bar’s wifi then proceeded to tell him the password. Now I may be old fashioned but I think it’s polite to ask for such things. Of course it’s free but you only have to ask. It wasn’t his to give. Then I realised what had been bugging me. It was people’s rudeness. I cannot stand bad manners, being polite costs nothing and certainly has got me a long way in life when I was in business. I was noticing it everywhere I went. While I was ordering breakfast another couple came in and asked where the toilets were. Carol told them that there were no public toilets just for customers’ use only but they still marched past her, ignoring her to use her facilities. Was it a coincidence that all these rude people were, let’s say, Northern Europeans?

I enjoyed a splendid breakfast, paid the bill, hugged and kissed Carol, said my farewells to Debbie and told them I’d see them in February. It was time for my daily walk. I wandered around the paseo in front of the beach taking photos then went for a walk in the park.

.

Situated behind the beach and as you walk inshore towards the town, the public park had been closed for some time for refurbishment. It used to be dark and dingy and could be inhabited by unsavoury characters at night time. It’s in two halves separated by a road and underpass, the half nearest to the commercial centre has a mini golf course and a nightclub La Bolera. The first half had just reopened this week, it had been fenced off but now you could walk along the new paths, it was well lit at night time and had been reseeded with grass and new furniture installed. Another job well done by the local council, they really do spend a log of time and money keeping the resort up to standard and well maintained.

I took some more photos from various view points and climbed the footbridge over the main road for some higher views of the beach. It was like I was saying goodbye to all the places I had visited. I had done all I could and it was time to start getting ready to go home. Another afternoon on the patio making the most of the sun, reading and feeding the doves.

I dined for the last time at Los Danieles, mixed tapas for twelve euros and sat there savouring the atmosphere. Spanish football was on the TV again and tables full of locals were having a great time drinking, eating and laughing. If I were a drinker then this would be my local. I went off to the Hyperdino supermercado to do my duty free shopping. I wanted to bring back a bottle of honey rum for the Geordies and something for the princess. The only drinks I really miss since becoming teetotal are champagne, honey rum and cream of honey rum. The Spanish version of champagne is called cava. The most well known brand is Freixenet, they pay a fortune each year to have the first advert to be shown on Spanish TV after the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. On Gran Canaria in the northern town of Arucas there is a distillery that makes the famous Canarian rum Arehucas, a golden rum that has a taste somewhere between Bacardi and dark rum. Quite addictive, you quite often see canarians knocking back a shot for breakfast. Then they make honey rum which is a sweet rum of about 20% proof. Best drunk over ice, quite often in the restaurants the waiters will give you a complimentary glass with the bill. Or, if you had a wine bill like I used to have they’d just leave the bottle. The honey rum is called Ron Miel and the cream of honey rum is Crema de Ron Miel. This has the appearance and consistency of a Baileys and the taste is out of this world. I bought a bottle of each for the princess to give her a sample of what to expect when we come back in February and also some Canarian cheeses for our Christmas Day dinner. Canarian cheese is invariably queso de cabra, goat’s cheese. Some of it is rather spicy so I got us a selection.

Everything is getting geared up for Christmas here, all the decorations are up in the shops, bars and restaurants. I detest the festive season, it really sends me into a depression. I came here to get away from the preparations at home that seem to start in August now but there’s no escaping it. Christmas is celebrated as normal for tourists and ex-pats here on the Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day but the canarians and Spanish have their big day on twelfth night, the sixth of January. Dia de Los Tres Reyes, Three Kings Day. On the evening before there is usually a parade with the three wise men or kings on camels then on the day itself presents are exchanged. One year I met the Geordies up in the capital Las Palmas in the North of the island on the sixth. They’d enjoyed the parade the night before and we spent a pleasant day in the city before heading south to Puerto Rico. All along the paseo by Las Canteras beach families were walking up and down in their best gear, children were playing with their new toys and all were dining out in the many bars and restaurants that were open. We went into likely looking joint and ordered tapas para quatro, tapas for four, and the food and drink didn’t stop coming until we begged them for no more. At local prices, not tourist, we came out of there an hour or so later pissed and full.

.

The following Monday morning I finished packing and got ready to say my goodbyes. The day I arrived had been cloudy, I had six perfect days and the last day was cloudy again. My flight was at 14.25 so I was being collected at 11.25 from the Stalag. At 11.17 a long black Mercedes limousine pulled up outside and a liveried chauffeur loaded up my bags, careful with that ukelele Eugenie, and whisked me off to Las Palmas airport. Half an hour early before the desk opened I was first in the queue so check in was painless and I was straight through the duty free perfume shops into O’Learys Irish Bar where I could sit outside in the last of the sunshine I would see this year.

We boarded flight and were told there would be a delay because five passengers were missing and if they didn’t turn up their bags would be unloaded. One of them I knew about because I was last on the bus and there was still a guy standing in the walkway texting on his phone. Then they whittled it down to three missing, one they wouldn’t wait for and would chuck his bags off. The other two turned up onboard to sarcastic jeers only for them to tell us the ground staff had put them on the wrong plane to East Midlands! They had accepted that their luggage would be on its way to the wrong airport. Then someone looked out of the plane window and asked if they had a blue and a red case. An airport ground worker was dragging them across the Tarmac from the wrong plane to the right one.

In four hours we landed at Gatwick twenty minutes late to a chilly 6c. Whilst waiting for my luggage some twat pushed in front of me, dragged his case off the belt and down my shin before dropping it in my toe. Not a word of apology so I let rip. In the cab Shabbir was setting his coordinates for Harefield where he had just come from. I dumped the bags indoors and headed straight to the pub where the darts team were beating top of the league Mill End. A takeaway Singapore noodles and I was home. Tomorrow I would take the Divine Ms B to dinner and all would be back to normal.

So how was my week? I got to do lots I hadn’t done before like the hike along the dunes. I didn’t get to Las Palmas or the mountains in the centre of the island. I didn’t go to my favourite beach, Playa de Tauro and I still didn’t get to see my old mate John play a gig or get to borrow his guitar to do a few myself. Still, I’ll be back for longer in February with the princess, let’s get Christmas over with and roll on next year and the next holiday.