Bacon

Day four and I'm still in Split...

So having got in at oh-deary-me o’clock what the hell was I doing awake so early. Let’s face it if you’ve read the previous instalment you’ll know I was in bed perilously late though with my virtue inevitably intact. I’m good like that.

As the partying one was not going to surface for some time I pulled yesterday’s dress on over my nightie and padded outside with a cup of tea to write. What was clear was that the weather was massively different to the day before, we are talking angry skys and a distinct cooling, but still rather lovely. I even managed to write quite a bit, that simple joy of reliving moments is an incredible thing, sadly though the realities of day-to-day life often cause an unintended writing break.

I guess the irony of this is that I’m writing about writing about something a month after it happened from the departure lounge of Gatwick airport as I am heading east once more, though this time to Venice. You’ll probably be able to read about that in six months time once I’ve caught up. Or maybe July when I know I will be next travelling…

Anyway, ignoring the moreish nibbles - which I can’t - and the pink wine - ditto - it was a pleasant couple of hours of writing and contemplating until eventually the creature from the duvet emerged banking in to the sunlight.

I made her tea.

As we sat pondering the gloomy weather we realised we needed one thing. Bacon. Trouble is it’s a little harder to come by here, or at least in the form that we are used to. We decided we needed a foraging expedition to find bacon. After all how hard could this be, people love bacon!

Yeah, right. 

We’d noticed the day before that you could get ruddy great lumps of porky pig that looked vaguely like bacon but unsliced so we knew we had a fall back if needed. It is from such simple thoughts that great plans are born. We would head out, hit the local little supermarket and… As it turned head somewhere else. No bacon. So we went to the place that sold so much stuff aimed at visitors, they were *bound* to have some we reasoned.

It turns out one can’t really reason after dancing until 4am.

So no bacon. Which meant we bought a lump. It might have been that we could have got the people behind the counter to slice it for us but given that I’ve barely progressed to five words and Missy was still dancing in her head it was unlikely we’d make ourselves understood without risking being arrested for miming the Texas Bacon Slicer Massacre.

Oh, that wasn’t a thing. Apparently.

We could improvise, how hard would this be? Fortunately we like bacon thick and unevenly cut. No we do, it’s great. So after hardly any giggling the psychopathic one with the knife managed to assemble something that vaguely looked like slices. Needless to say once fried nothing else mattered. It was epic.

Finally sated it was time to shower and dress properly. I don’t normally go wandering off to the supermarket with a nightie vaguely covered by a crumbled cotton dress. We decided to was back around to the beach we’d been swimming from to sea weather the sea would be cooperative and hence we’d be able to go for a swim. It was not to be.

The sea was decidedly cross. wonderful to see but really not the sort of thing to go plodging in safely. This meant the only thing for it was to sit quietly and enjoy a coffee as we watched the waves crash on the beach. It was cool, fresh and quite simply idyllic.

I’ve no idea how long we sat there but in time we wandered back to Chez Clare and the prospect of a light supper before catching up with the sleep we didn’t have the night before. After all, in the morning…

…We were going to church