Naked Spanish hippy syndrome?

What I want to know is why, on every walking trip out of the Bahia Principe, the route always seems to take us past the naked hippy and his various trinkets, some of which are not displayed in his market stall.  You will know that I am not in charge of the route, and indeed the word root might be at the root of my problems. One will know that a problem identified with most of his sort is that they are regularly stoned, so I wanted to feature a picture today that best illustrates this state, but this is all I could come up with.

Modern Spanish building techniques revealed?

Yesterday we took a taxi to Playa Funabi, which was as close as either of us dared to go to Playa  des Americas, the supposed arse end of Tenerife. Funabi would have been fun if you were 18, stupid and wanted an English breakfast and then a large beer for 1.50 euros (about £1.25 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rate). It was not fun for an aged impresario resting from his activities as a music mogul, or his very young and gorgeous looking wife.

We had resolved to walk back along the coast, some 7 miles with a couple of beer stops en route and this is exactly how it panned out. I formed a decent impression of the Playa del Duque, with no emphasis on del as on Del Boy. Higher prices, better looking restaurants and generally an air of genteel quality replaced the awful places we had left behind.

After a beer in Funabi, in a bar we had to share with a Dutchman with a serious dose of Tourette’s syndrome,  with his regular outbursts keeping that Nice Lady Decorator amused, we had to leave as his symptoms became more and more pronounced and she was in danger of spraying her beer in my direction. Praise the Lord that were not in the company of some less restrained people.

We got to La Caleta at around 2pm for a pit stop at El Peurtita,  the final resting place on the way back to Gods Waiting Room, the name that has now been attached to the resort in which we have stayed for the last week.  We will say goodbye this afternoon to the Bahia Principe, glad to have escaped the last stop on the way to oblivion. If there is no post tomorrow then you will know I did not escape the clutches of the devil (this just for regular reader and inferior golfer the Reverend Jeff).

Yes, from sunshine and warmth to darkness and Gatwick seems in some way a to illustrate a similar change in circumstances, but fortified by a sun tan I am ready to face the icy damp hell that is England, where we shall spend an uncomfortable week trying to maintain some colour before travelling to Valbonne at the end of next week in readiness for MIDEM.

The annual convention of the great and good of the music industry will see me in Cannes, as in each of the 32 previous January’s. The week ahead will be spent plotting, or rather planning how best to use this renowned meeting of minds and which beach restaurants in which to enact those very meetings. Perish the thought that this can be viewed as pleasure, nothing could be further from the truth. This is work and it needs to be done .

One final half day then of sunshine and relaxation today before dishonest endeavour commences. Doubtless the last morning will see us walking somewhere, and I have little doubt that the route we shall take we shall once again stumble across (perhaps an unwise choice of words) an unclothed Spanish hippy with something to sell.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News