Last night in Mallorca

Deia. We are up in the hills. I checked out of my busy room in Port Soller and drove into Palma. Yesterday I had dropped off all my freight so Bergman was light and I have rear vision once more. Lou flew in to meet me. She’ll be shotgun for the drive home which will make it easier. On the way up I had a table in the passenger seat which wasn’t great conversation but didn’t object to me listening to Joseph Campbell droning on about comparative mythology all the hours that God made (or that we made but are we God but what is we?)

She has booked a little hotel on a hillside in peaceful mountainous Deia, where all the terribly rich folk live their happy lives. We caught the end of the day down in a little cove with a seagull, a load of teenage stoners and a slightly disgruntled duck that appears to think it’s a seagull.

Water on feet and sinking into the peace here before the long road rolls out ahead of us back to good old blighty. I’ve relaxed so much I can barely stand up in the evenings. I’ll likely stay in this state as long as I can because it’s gonna be full on again in Uruguay and no days off. Taurus full moon and an eclipse this morning. Grounding before it all goes galloping forwards.

Company is pleasant after a few days solo, but I’m having to remember how to make conversation. Lou and I will be stuck in Bergman for 1000 miles. Right now she’s beside me in this lovely wood panelled room as I get this writing written so I can slide off to deep slumber. The balcony is open, but I saw lots of bats at dusk so hopefully the mosquito count will be low, even if summer is holding on here in the Balearics. I could live here in winter if it’s always like this. A happy break. Not a holiday. But a happy break nonetheless.

There’s a fairytale castle for sale in Port Soller for 2.8 million euro… A snip if I could only win that damn lottery. For now I’m gonna enjoy this warm comfy hotel room and see where my dreams take me tonight. The scent of woodsmoke is coming in from the open balcony. Murmuring voices on the wind. Patches of light. A faint breeze. Bright moonlight. Cicadas.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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