Sunset, Isle of Wight
Sex On The Beach
It’s a popular cocktail made from vodka, peach schnapps, cranberry juice and orange juice. It’s also an activity that some of the locals on the Isle of Wight apparently like to – er – indulge in, in broad daylight (well the sun hadn’t quite set yet)... when I’m walking right past them on my way back to our rented cottage (the Clock House). It was too late to turn back, so I just kept on walking by, eyes front (thanking my lucky stars for my huge sunglasses to shield my expression). Get a room, people!
The Clock House
Things That Go Bump In the Night
It seems the couple on the beach weren’t the only ones feeling frisky…in the early hours of the following morning, I sat bolt upright in bed, convinced that some very noisy burglars (or possibly some ghosts) were riffling through our stuff. After listening to loud scratching, thumping and what sounded like heavy objects being dragged about for a good minute, I woke B up to do the “Man Investigating Strange Noise Thing”. He stomped around putting on all the lights and checking windows and doors….naturally the noises stopped immediately…. and concluded that there must be rats in the roof. I reckoned they must have been having a full blown Roman orgy between the rafters for creatures that tiny to make such a lot of noise….
Wedgewood clock in The Clock House
Who Let The Dogs Out?
The Andalusian farmhouse that I wrote about here came complete with several rather mangy but affectionate old cats, and three resident dogs…
Marta, Chico and the ever-grinning Churro
These three canine chums loved nothing better than going for walkies, so the hosts asked that we ensure a member of staff kept them locked in when we set off in the mornings. One day, we were a good mile from the house when some of our party looked back and saw a dust cloud coming along the road to us… the dust being thrown up by 12 little doggy legs, running their hardest to catch us up. Our guide phoned the owner and got his permission that we keep the dogs for the day. Fashioning two leads out of some scraps of rope found lying among the olive grove and one from a camera bag strap, the delighted dogs were soon good to go.
They kept up the pace well, enjoying a bowl of water (and eyeing the curing hams hanging above their heads) when we stopped in a bar in the next town, and then sharing our picnic lunch. By the time we got back to the farmhouse that evening, they were exhausted…collapsing by the pool to rest.
What should we do with a drunken landlord?
The cosy, coastal cottage for two that we rented in Wales just happened to be right next door to the cottage owner’s house. Not a problem... after a quick welcome and demo of the heating system, the landlady pretty much left us to our own devices for the next couple of days. Not so much her husband.
It was New Year’s Eve, and with just under an hour till the taxi was due to whip us down to the closest town for a bit of shindig at 'The Harbourmaster', he knocked on our door. Under the auspices of wishing us a good evening and imparting his knowledge of the best local watering holes (should we feel like a bit of a pub crawl later that night), he invited himself in, and then cheekily asked if he could have a glass of “that wine you have on the go”. The bottle of red in question was in fact stowed behind the bread bin in the kitchen, and visible only to a true alcoholic eye! Not that I’d begrudge anyone a drink, but time was marching on and, on the rare occasion that I do get dressed up, it takes some time to whip my hair, nails and face into some semblance of respectability.
And the landlord looked like he was settling down for the duration, regaling us with tales of his global travels, working as a fashion artist that would have been fascinating it we’d had the time to chat. It crossed my mind that he might think we were ready to go out...yes, track pants, woolly jumpers and slippers are all the rage at Black Tie events.
The Harbourmaster, NYE
Eventually we managed to diplomatically manoeuvre him out the door, only with a promise that we would pop over for a drink the next evening. When we got there, our friendly landlord had obviously been drinking wine all day long and managed a good few more glasses while we were there. He kept repeating the stories he’d told the night before, over and over and over again. When it came to the point when we thought we could politely retreat to the sanctity of our own cottage, he stood up to see us out...only to collapse back on the couch in a heap. Dreading the possibility of having to endure another session of this the morning of our departure, we were quite relieved when he appeared briefly...looking a bit fragile....and just waved us on our way!
