We had a great time. The Canaries are Europe’s playground: people come for a stress-free holiday and the islands don’t disappoint. But being part of the tourism-mill, we didn’t get to hear about the irrigation problems, rising property prices, or the fate of the boatpeople arriving constantly from Africa. So there isn’t much to talk about.
We ate, we drank, we snorkelled and we were merry. We had a happy holiday in surprisingly pleasant surroundings. Some of the islands—Fuerteventura among them—have put a stop to ugly high-rise developments, and Corralejo is an attractive, lively resort with the soul of the fishing port it once was still in there somewhere.
Alas, it seems not even a package holiday comes without the requisite near-death experience. I’m not a happy flyer, but I thought I was used to it by now. After all, people take their families on holiday—it’s not a high-risk undertaking.
But I swear the plane did a rabbit-hop upon landing at Gatwick, with all the wheels leaving the tarmac, accompanied by a frightening shudder.
“Turbulence,” John said when I unrolled myself from the crash position (I put my knees and arms up out of sheer reflex). “Pilot had to make a correction. No worries.”
No worries? The pilot had to make a correction?
Why do you think I’m scared of flying in the first place? What if he’d flipped the wrong switch?
That’s all for now. It is rainy and stormy outside and I only venture out of doors to buy milk or go to the pub. Meanwhile, I’ll keep updating the Flickr set (I have to insert a lot of descriptions and write up my holiday recipes, featuring—among others—stewed rabbit and goat).
I’ll see you again at next week’s Santacon!