3rd January 2021. Elba Sarah beach resort Fuerteventura. I climb into the driving seat of a VW Polo. Harold, my new German friend – who forgot his driving licence - in the passenger seat and we are about to explore the island. I have driven an automatic car for forty years, this one has five gears and I am daft nervous.
In 1339 the Mallorcan navigator Angelino Dulcert, referred to the island as "Forte Ventura”. The island's name is a compound word formed by the Spanish words for "strong" (fuerte) and "fortune" (ventura). Traditionally, Fuerteventura's name has been regarded as a reference to the strong winds around the island and the resulting danger to nautical adventurers. However, it might have referred instead (or also) to wealth, luck or destiny… The island's conquest began in earnest in 1402, commanded by French knights and crusaders… In 1424 Pope Martin V, through the Betancuria Brief, edited the establishment of the Bishopric of Fuertoventura. [Wikipedia]
The airport [on my right a Tui flight – Boeing 737 – just landing] was built in the 1960’s following which, the island was invaded again, but this time on a grand scale. First, millions of pieces of Lego (breeze block 9” x 4”) were assembled along the coast, covered in cement (rendered) and all painted white. As we move further north half-finished bits of Lego become more prevalent. With the arrival of the airport and Lego came thousands of fat folk; many covered in tattoos (I do have a tattoo and have been fat, so qualify) sporting colourful shirts with sponsors names and logo’s. Special bars and restaurants were built to serve the fat folk with Doner kebabs, Bangladeshi delights - like chicken tikka masala - but most important of all sixty-inch plasma screens on the wall, featuring a bunch of spoiled brats kicking a football about in colourful shirts with sponsors names and more logos, for all to watch while being served large beers at 1.50 euro a pint.
We are heading to Corrlalejo on the northern tip, the largest town and ferry port. The final five miles resemble the Sahara desert, rolling sand dunes, adorned with kites everywhere. We stop, Harold has a smoke-Marlborough Gold- and I walk in the sand and admire the kites. The sand is indeed from the Sahara, blown here on Westerly winds over many centuries. I follow signs to the port knowing there is also a large marina which I wish to explore. I park, take a deep breath and make a huge sigh of relieve-phew-as my back seat driver heads to the nearest bar and orders a large beer, even though its only 1100h. “Harold, how many beers a day do you consume”. “More than Lambo” he replies. I sip my water before exploring the marina. One area; the size of a swimming pool, had two resident dolphins, (not sure I am comfortable), who perform tricks and let you swim with them. Another area to the right, parallel with the dolphins, has floating bouncy castles and slides, again in an area the size of a pool. The marina is packed with many boats, including a large glass bottomed one – so the fat folk can see the fish without putting their beer down. "Hang on a moment, didn't Lambo do that when he was sixteen and a half stone and waiting for his first knee operation" I refuse to ask myself. "Not sure this would work for Frangi", I say to myself instead. Frangi's’ refit continues as the marina (Portland) is in lockdown but the engineering side also covers lifeboats so still operational. I have every intention of bringing her to the Canaries for next winter so looking for a suitable port. I return to my water; Harold is on his second beer and possibly his third Marlborough. “How many cigarettes do you smoke a day” I ask. “two packets sometimes more” Harold responds. “Come on then just how many beers do you have each day” I cheekily ask again. “Ten most days sometimes more but if I wake in the night, I drink red wine. I want to go now to the old town, now” he responds, as standing and downing the rest of his pint.
The old town is about 400 meters to our right, with a lovely beach front walkway to enjoy. Harold doesn’t do walking so I am now driving again, gingerly weaving my way - I just stayed in second gear - through the town centre, via the ring road, to; … “stop, left, right… shit Lambo we are going in the sea……stop”. “Harold either shut the fuck up and let me drive or drive yourself”, didn’t leave my lips. We did not go in the sea, the old town was very closed, but we did find ourselves driving along a pedestrian shopping street and pavement which fortunately was deserted.
I must be a gluten for punishment as the following day I repeated the exercise only this time heading to the west of the island. Harold wants to visit Antigua which leaves me very confused before he explains its on the West coast and not in the Caribbean. I’m driving, its noon and the sun is on my left shoulder so west we are going. Harold is waving his hand in front of me, “Lambo turn left, turn left”. “but Harold left is…” I turn left the sun in my eyes. Twenty minutes later he admits he made a mistake. By now he wants to visit the nearest town as he is thirsty and needs a smoke. Fifteen minutes later I park next to another marina, in Gran Terajal, and walk into town. Harold orders and drinks his first beer. He is delighted as there seems to be no restrictions on smoking at the tables. He now needs food – the pub allows smoking because it doesn’t serve food – so we move again.
The Karma bar and restaurant is about to enter my life. We have lunch, more beer for Harold and he strikes up a conversation, all in German, with an Austrian lady-she is selling her paintings, and called Helga to her friends. I really must make more effort to learn another language, hey ho. It turns out Helga has a flat to let in a village four miles away which was a coincidence as that morning I decided I would leave my hotel – if I can negotiate a refund – and find somewhere more suitable to write as my total output at that point was nil.
Another deep breath and a huge sigh of relief as I arrived back at our hotel, turn off the engine and hand the keys back.
Four days later Harold left for home in Munich but not before sharing he was seventy-one years old, a passionate gambler – there is a casino next door to the hotel but very closed – who holidays in Lass Vegas and LA but travel restrictions landed him here. He is retired History and English teacher, two children and five grandchildren. Divorced from his first wife and his second wife died. -yikes sounds familiar. He is a passionate Bayern Munich fan, his perfect weekend is with his mates, in the pub, drinking beer, wearing his team shirt, eating chicken tikka masala and watching football on a fifty-inch plasma screen. He is not fat, a little chubby maybe, has no tattoos but also has a passion for stocks & shares, red wine, fine brandy and …. It’s best I don’t repeat the rest of his message from last week. Om Harold, lovely to meet you and thank you so much for joining in the fun.
Helga from Austria is also about to change my destiny …
But not without a Colin ‘I just need somewhere quiet to write’ first, and then spending five days in dispute with Air B&B, as you do ...
Notes:
Harold has been fully involved in the writing of this blog. I even know Bayern Munich won 4-0 today as he would not engage while the game was on. Om Harold; thank you so much, we did have a laugh.
I also had a fun holidays with my dad and brothers glued to a 60 inch plasma screen when the rugby world cup was on and taking my kids to the same resorts.
I have one maybe two, fat tattooed friends and my wife Sheila was a little chubby with a discreet tattoo. I intend no disrespect against any folk of any size I am merely viewing myself as might have been in another life. I also love Doner kebabs and curry.
I loved your Curry Colin
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