Then we stayed in the French capital, my wife Carrie engaging with some of the city's canvassing politicians at a Sunday market. Politics, sometimes the bane, other times the passion in our lives, is never far away.
As ever, with her fastidious attention to detail coupled with a a prodigious organisational talent, she selected a great hotel. Paris, she loved, whereas I found it visually skanky, its grayness deepened by the persistent rain. I even managed to get interviewed by a West Belfast anti-sobriety campaigner for Charlie Hebdo! We had earlier visited the scene of the theocratic fascist mass murder of Parisian journalists and cartoonists.
Majorca was much different, as it invariably is. Sombreness, if not sobriety, is jettisoned over the Pyrenees. Wednesday of last week saw us on a 0600 flight headed for our favourite spot on the island, its beach right at the end of the line. We both love the area, having been there on a few occasions. It was where I helped my son learn to swim, my daughter having previously attained that status at home. This time we were in Majorca and child free.
Every day was spent swimming in the Mediterranean. The waves at times so powerful I had to be assisted to my feet twice - no deeper than a half metre of water - by a lifeguard, much to the merriment of my wife. Years ago a German woman did the lifeguard's job when my inebriated battle with the waves was lost then too.
On our last day the dreaded sun attacked me. Despite being copiously protectively smeared by Carrie before plunging in, I spent far too long in the Med in my successful endeavor to be the furthermost swimmer from the shoreline. A risk perhaps better taken at 67 than at 17, youth having so much more to lose if it all goes wrong. I will end up at the bottom of the Med eventually, within viewing distance of the gentle bay, but hopefully not before I am ash.
We watched the Germany-Spain game in 'our bar' across the street from the hotel. It was packed with Spanish supporters. The bar facing it was where the Germans had congregated. Each time a goal was scored one set of fans would taunt the other but not in an aggressive way. I felt it would take more than the width of a street - the Spanish police public order unit - to forcibly separate the tribes had England fans been on site. The police don't always keep the peace, often applying their own violence to secure order.
We watched the England quarter-final in the midst of England fans. They were fine and in jubilant mood at the end once Trent Alexander Arnold had converted the penalty that saw their side through to last night's semi-final clash with The Netherlands. That I watched at home with my son, feeling that the best team won despite the dubious penalty award.
Holidays are always great for reading. My wife got through four books. I started three which I have yet to complete, each from genres that hold a particular interest for me. For a long time I had been intending to read Alexander Werth's Russia At War. What put me off was the length. The flight over seemed as good a place as any to start. Then it was onto The Purity Of Vengeance by Scandi Noir writer, Jussi Adler Olsen. The final one was Harold Louis Mencken's Religious Orgy in Tennessee. There was no disappointment for me in any of them. I even had my enjoyment of the Mencken one lubricated by some Frank Spencer-type on Facebook howling 'fascist' at me, seemingly in defence of Christian nationalism.
We still managed to keep abreast of the news, particularly the British and French general elections. We rejoiced that the Tories were mauled without siding with Labour which under Starmer seems as committed to Tory policies as Conservative Central Office ever was. We were delighted to see the perch the French far right were about to settle on pulled away from it on the home straight. Great food, dining out, swimming, reading, boozing, chilling in the heat, and best of all - my wife's companionship.
Despite the break, TPQ didn't lose out. It was kept going by having been formatted and scheduled a week in advance. All I had to do was upload any comments. Now back to the greyness and the grinding stone.
Majorca was much different, as it invariably is. Sombreness, if not sobriety, is jettisoned over the Pyrenees. Wednesday of last week saw us on a 0600 flight headed for our favourite spot on the island, its beach right at the end of the line. We both love the area, having been there on a few occasions. It was where I helped my son learn to swim, my daughter having previously attained that status at home. This time we were in Majorca and child free.
Every day was spent swimming in the Mediterranean. The waves at times so powerful I had to be assisted to my feet twice - no deeper than a half metre of water - by a lifeguard, much to the merriment of my wife. Years ago a German woman did the lifeguard's job when my inebriated battle with the waves was lost then too.
On our last day the dreaded sun attacked me. Despite being copiously protectively smeared by Carrie before plunging in, I spent far too long in the Med in my successful endeavor to be the furthermost swimmer from the shoreline. A risk perhaps better taken at 67 than at 17, youth having so much more to lose if it all goes wrong. I will end up at the bottom of the Med eventually, within viewing distance of the gentle bay, but hopefully not before I am ash.
We watched the Germany-Spain game in 'our bar' across the street from the hotel. It was packed with Spanish supporters. The bar facing it was where the Germans had congregated. Each time a goal was scored one set of fans would taunt the other but not in an aggressive way. I felt it would take more than the width of a street - the Spanish police public order unit - to forcibly separate the tribes had England fans been on site. The police don't always keep the peace, often applying their own violence to secure order.
We watched the England quarter-final in the midst of England fans. They were fine and in jubilant mood at the end once Trent Alexander Arnold had converted the penalty that saw their side through to last night's semi-final clash with The Netherlands. That I watched at home with my son, feeling that the best team won despite the dubious penalty award.
Holidays are always great for reading. My wife got through four books. I started three which I have yet to complete, each from genres that hold a particular interest for me. For a long time I had been intending to read Alexander Werth's Russia At War. What put me off was the length. The flight over seemed as good a place as any to start. Then it was onto The Purity Of Vengeance by Scandi Noir writer, Jussi Adler Olsen. The final one was Harold Louis Mencken's Religious Orgy in Tennessee. There was no disappointment for me in any of them. I even had my enjoyment of the Mencken one lubricated by some Frank Spencer-type on Facebook howling 'fascist' at me, seemingly in defence of Christian nationalism.
We still managed to keep abreast of the news, particularly the British and French general elections. We rejoiced that the Tories were mauled without siding with Labour which under Starmer seems as committed to Tory policies as Conservative Central Office ever was. We were delighted to see the perch the French far right were about to settle on pulled away from it on the home straight. Great food, dining out, swimming, reading, boozing, chilling in the heat, and best of all - my wife's companionship.
Despite the break, TPQ didn't lose out. It was kept going by having been formatted and scheduled a week in advance. All I had to do was upload any comments. Now back to the greyness and the grinding stone.
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| ⏩Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre. |
Glad you enjoyed yer Hols. That was never a penalty. Shades of '66? Dodgy decisions going their way.
ReplyDeleteA great holiday Steve, thanks.
DeleteThe guy was fouled in the box. The defender showed his studs. That made it an arguable penalty in that at least there was something to discuss.
However, I think the decision was harsh.
I have thought from as far back as the World cup that they would win either these Euros or the next World Cup.
They have a great pool of individual talent which as the competition has gone on are shaping into a good team.
I would like to see them win. Which will make me a heretic . . . again.