The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2442 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The rest of the day went remarkably well. The area at the top of the hill afforded some spectacular views across part of the island up towards Fornells and along the coast west of it.

The birdlife on the island continued to delight me and once again Bonelli’s eagles soared in the distance, while black redstarts were present on the edges of the cliffs, presumably on passage. I’d seen them back home but never in this sort of numbers.

We had our picnic, sitting on the plastic sheet Simon had carried up the hill. It also enabled me to put Lizzie down for a short while. She’d got heavy walking up the hill. I’ve trudged up hills before, often laden with binoculars and telescopes plus my lunch and water, but not carrying a burgeoning baby. She suckled from me, distracted by the sun in her eyes at one point and then she fell asleep in mid suck. I stroked her face and once more she tried to suck my nipples off.

There were other people about, it is a very popular place, Santa Agueda, and the ruins were quite impressive. Apparently, there had been a chapel dedicated to St Agatha at one time which might explain the name, but it’s no longer distinguishable from the ruined farmhouse and general decline of the place.

The descent was more orderly and we all stayed together, Simon carrying Cate, me with Lizzie again, holding hands with Meems as we walked. Danni, Trish and Livvie did go on ahead, trying to catch lizards but never succeeding. Over the rough part of the path we all helped each other, trying to avoid sprained ankles or broken bones on our last night in Menorca.

Simon booked a table for us all for dinner but before that we had one last hour or two using the pool at the villa, which we all enjoyed. Then a shower and change of clothing, plus a bit of make up for us girls and Simon escorted us all a restaurant on the outskirts of Mao, where Danni and I shared a final paella and the others ate all sorts of things, some Spanish and some not. Simon’s spicy chicken looked more Mexican than Spanish but he enjoyed it—with chips? They seem to assume that all we Brits eat is chipped potatoes, usually thin horrible things the ‘Mericans call French fries, and the sort of rubbish the burger chains sell to have with burgers and other assorted food abominations.

After dinner it was home to pack as we had an early flight the next morning, which meant leaving at silly am. Given the sort of day I’d had where my lachrymal glands had worked as hard as my legs, I went off to sleep very quickly accompanied by a lullaby chorus of cicadas and Scops owls.

The next morning was here all too quickly and from five o’clock it was bedlam until we departed at six to drive to the airport, Simon dropping us off outside while he took the minibus back to the rental firm. He joined us ten minutes later and we spent the next twenty minutes queuing for the flight and to get our baggage dealt with at the check in. At least no one had tried to bring back a stray dog or cat or wild animal. Danni had added some clothes but her case was just inside the limit.

As Mrs Winner had arrived to see us off from the villa, I had remembered to hang my bike on the wall of the garage. The rest, the bike shop would collect at their convenience by agreement with Mrs Winner. To keep her sweet, I left her an envelope with a hundred Euros, knowing that she’d keep looking after the villa for another year and her husband would do the pool and garden. None of it was hard work but they did it efficiently and were reasonable in their charges.

Despite having had breakfasts, the children wanted food at the airport, where like everywhere else it’s a rip off. However, it kept them busy and quiet so Simon sighed and paid for the mounds of cake and pastries they scoffed. After watching them tucking in for a few minutes I decided I could force down something with my tea and came back bearing a tuna baguette, of which, Simon ate half.

I had my iPad so settled down with the headlines and then the crossword. I felt sick when I saw those thugs in the Islamic State had executed the British aid worker in the same way they had the two Americans before. They give terrorists a bad name and certainly they’ve been decried by most Muslims the world over, not that will bring their victims back or prevent more obscenities of barbarism. And that chap was trying to help people in Syria—no wonder there is such racial and religious tension in various places, these monsters ramp it up deliberately. I hope they catch them but that they resist capture—although we could always give them to the Americans after they’ve served so many years here, they won’t leave a US jail alive. I shuddered, I don’t usually feel that angry with people, but they were so disgusting, presumably being recruited by militants in the UK or Europe. It’s the way they revel in their barbarism that disgusts me. Still, a grenade in their knickers would sort that.

I read an interview in the Guardian a few weeks ago with some radical Islamic preacher who wants sharia law in the UK, and decries virtually everything the government does except the benefits he and his family receive. The irony wasn’t lost to me that we not only allow these people the right to preach against us and our ways of life, yet we don’t pull the plug on them financially. Perhaps if he had to earn a living he’d have less time to ponder his anti British thoughts.

Mind you, the same could apply to Mr Salmond, leader of the separatist movement in Scotland, who is chief conductor of the turkeys who are marching towards Christmas, filled with the delusions and falsehoods that form his very own brand of stuffing.

Feeling thoroughly depressed I moved on to the crossword and began the contest of my single functioning brain cell against the mind of the compiler, in this case ‘Paul’, who does some wonderfully whimsical clues, some of which delight with double entendre.

After I had done half the puzzle our flight was called, and all ten thousand of us moved towards the plane. In three hours we’d be back in Blighty and waiting for our baggage—oh the joys of travelling.

It took about twenty minutes for us to wander up the stairs of the aircraft and take our seats. Of course the girls didn’t want the ones they were allocated and played musical chairs for several minutes until I persuaded them that one of the flight attendants was coming to sort them out, then they all jumped into a seat and stayed there even after the trolley dolly had passed.

Another twenty minutes and cuddling Lizzie, I tried to relax as the aircraft thundered down the runway and took to the air. Listening to my MP3 player and Nigel Kennedy playing Brüch and I was floating on air, looking forward to seeing Daddy, Julie and Sammi together with Stella and her two girls. I was even contemplating seeing our psycho-kitten with some pleasure, I felt so good as I drifted off into a violin induced snooze. I mean, what could go wrong?