Neither the Brompton nor I are big fans of mountain climbs, but nevertheless we pedalled doughtily up 8 kilometres to the highest village you can see from the beach. There were plenty of excuses for stops – mostly to admire the views – so we were fine.
The smell of thyme and pine in the warm air was lovely, as were the many clumps of pink cyclamen. Sadly no donkeys yet on this holiday – not even any early-morning braying to indicate the presence of one. I guess donkeys may be out of a job these days. Speaking of which . . . the fire lookout point was manned by only one fire officer rather than the usual two of past years. He’ll have to play solitaire rather than rummy now.
Yesterday I came across a variation of the remittance economy: the local resort was holding a charity bazaar, with all proceeds going to Cancer Research UK. On reflection, I suppose it’s not that different from a British jumble sale in aid of MSF or whatever. It seems oddly suburban here . . . which is perhaps what happens when you get that critical mass of ex-pats.