I'm so pleased. A helpful person suggested changing to Firefox. I might even go bonkers and try another picture. Someone had £146 stolen at school at the end of last term. She didn't deserve that. I won a similar amount on Silver Birch on Saturday on the National. I might replace what she lost with my winnings. I'm not flush. I'm retired, but I still might. I would have definitely if Puntal had come a few places higher up. We went down to Cornwall to stay in a 'Sun Readers' caravan over the Easter. We saved ourselves a fortune - we took the dogs.Coastal Path walking, pastie eating and sleeping. We checked the prices for High Season. £1200 for two weeks. We can only afford it if the dog comes into season and we sell the puppies. No wonder the missus wants to go to the Greeek islands.
I was intending to go to Praa Sand. When I was a boy in Cornwall I pronounced it as in 'Pray' rather than as in 'Bra'. Then again Fowey was as in 'Toy' rather than as in 'Ian the Coventry manager'. If you call a swede a swede rather than turnip, and cauliflower cauliflower rather than broccoli and you don't order your potatoes by the gallon,you have no say in the matter. The reason to go to Prassiere sands as you would say was a cricketing one. One of the builders at school said that Chris Old runs a cafe there, and so it would be well worth a visit. We spent hours cliff walking, Lizard, Porthleven, Cadgwith Kynance Cove, that sort of thing, but din't get as far as Hello Boys. Shame really as I could have done with a Chili. Not funny.
As I said I'm only practising and as Chris had noticed I haven't got to Adelaide yet. I'll get there. Because I haven't written anything for ages and you won't have read anything for ages, and as Cornwall is so expensive, and tourists are called emmits and they will be swarming all over Cornwall like ants here are some suggested Catalonian tours for you to consider for your next holiday.
I’m sure there are loads of advantages of having Spanish neighbours but I think I’ve discovered another one. The ants have deserted us for a more local diet. They have headed off upwards and onwards, towards the dizzy heights of the apartment above, where there is a nouveau cuisine and where the ants would not be seen dead on a Formica top. I don’t think they will be posting their route on the internet quite yet, however. I am reminded of the drive through France. It is impossible to work out what has a bearing on their sense of direction. I can see why they are avoiding the recess where the yellow aerosol is housed as they will know about the heavy toll they would have to pay if they chose this route. There seems neither rhyme nor reason to the workings of the main thoroughfares, though you may be better placed to comment having read about the antecedents in France. The ants seem to prefer to follow each other along the same auto route, criss crossing frequently, sometimes forming two lanes sometimes forming four.
As if the missus was influencing them, they regularly zoomed off to the left or right to flit in and out of the Route du Soleil. They probably have the equivalent of the 20 minutes in the sun rule. I’ve worked it out to be about 20 seconds. Using this rule of equivalents or shrivel-ants as we can refine and redefine it, an ant must reach the three score years and ten in about one score months less six. Somebody will know the life expectancy of the average ant. I know it will vary. Less for soldiers more for the Royal Family. It varies within families too. We all have an old auntie who is seemingly immortal. It’s very satisfying all this observation, contemplation and study. It could pay dividends for the human race when the right person comes along, interprets all this data and deciphers the ants’ lines of command. It could change the course of history. Such studies of animal behaviours have produced the goods in the past. How many times have we heard in answer to the question ‘How far is such and such a place?’ something like’ Three miles as the crow flies’?
I noticed that a couple of bottlenecks formed as the lanes merged a la France and you could detect and empathise with that feeling a la moi of whether travelling all that distance was worth it. From this experience I knew what the ants needed. They too, despite the nature of their press releases get tired while roaming and rambling. If one in three ants stuff it this way that’s a lot of ants. What they needed was an airing and I don’t mean the aerosol variety. Whether it filled their need for a gourmet guzzle or some gazole I don’t know but the little bit of mermelada that I smeared on the neighbour’s side of the steps together with a few drops of water seemed to get the traffic flow fluide again and although it’s still up anthill from here they seemed to have more of a spring in their step. Time for a siesta! Oh shit there’s an ant on my deck chair. Where’s that Gordon Pirie stuff?
Talking of gorgeous, the missus reappeared with a theory. I have been trying hard not to personify the ants. I’m not afraid of metamorphosis for metamorphosis’ sake. In fact it would make a change. ‘For fuck’s sake will you listen for a change!’, she shouted with the charm of a mutant Ninja turning turtle. ‘It is clear’ she propounded. ‘The ants are from the Costa Brava and for generations they would have followed the rutas of their antcestors’ (her spelling!). I began to rise, sensing that my siesta would be short-lived and that now was not the time to tell her about the insignificance of the generation gap when it came to ants. She smoothed my hair and gently pushed my head down. No! For once I’m not talking dick I’m talking dictums. With all the authority and assurance of a Pope anointing Cardinals she said ‘Take this down’. No honestly! It’s not bull, Papal, Spanish or Steve. I’m not the one who’s dictating here. I’m just noting it down. Just like the Pontiff the missus is sure of her stuff and is about to pontificate about where we should be going. It could be a blessing in disguise of course as we need to get out more as I’m sure you have realised.
Like all modern day leaders she read from a prepared script. ‘Those ants’, she started, pointing to the furthermost hordes of hormigas ‘are taking the ‘Ruta Dels Cims I la Plana’ and will have their ups and downs. Like you they will be down in the dumps one minute and up the next. It will be more of the case of the ups being summits in the Pyrenees’, she explained. ‘If it were winter the ants would be white with snow’, she continued. ‘If you look closely, the ones who have reached the apartment above next door’s, where the French family are staying are more yellow. Like a little yellow train they disappear and reappear on their steep climb. They skirt the busy little town of LLivia where there is supposed to be one of Europe’s oldest chemist shops’. ‘Is that because there may be a fresh supply of mountain strength Pirineu Pirineo?’ I enquired.
‘This lot’ she said dismissing my disruption attempt with utter contempt, bringing my attention to a line of ants scurrying along the gaps between the bricks of the wall’ are taking the ‘Ruta De Les Valls’. ’These ants will not be England cricket supporters’ she mused. ‘They’ll be led to rack and ruins perhaps, but by train not by beer, through narrow passes, Sheer Khan cliffs and breathtaking views, but more worrying for you, through signal stealing gorges and wicket taking tunnels. Abbeys and monasteries abound so you might get some sort of special dispensation if you get as far as the Benedictine Abbey of St Joan de les Abadesses providing you have got a student rail card.’ I looked closely at this little trail of ants. They definitely were not proceeding in a straight line and the vibes coming from them were more reminiscent of barmy than army.
There was no way out now. It was like watching episode after episode of Alex Hayley’s Roots, or trying to clear our border of ground elder. There was always another ruta. I could have guessed the next one. A splinter group had slipped off crossing the pumice stone, clinker and water feature in the corner of the garden. ’Ruta Dels Volcans I L’Estany’, she confirmed. ‘They have the largest distance to travel. Olot of history to be absorbed but not by the clinker which should not be here as it ought to have been left in the wild beauty of the Garrotxa region’. Row upon row in pairs, fours and eights managed it across the water feature. She was crooning now. ‘The lakes of Banyoles where the ripples of British Olympic success can still be felt.’ ‘It’s not holy and it’s not Lourdes but I’ll train my sore bowling arm in Sir Steve Redgrave’s wake when we glide down the lake in our inflatable with you rowing’, I suggested now drifting helplessly with the flow.’ It’s the sort of training regime you don’t mind dear’, she said. I couldn’t help but agree, but I didn’t. I accidentally knocked the barbeque causing a shower of ash and charcoal to fall on the ants. An occupational hazard for their forebears in this region. Don’t confuse them with Ten Bears the Indian chief who was blood brother to Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider or the three bears who were definitely not blood relatives of Goldilocks. I hear that the Health and Safety Executive are looking into her complaints. Another sign of the times I suppose.
I’m almost comatose now. The next trail she directed me to went straight through the sand pit next door where their kids had been making sandcastles. They were in various states of repair. Some had been badly affected by the over night wind, some looked as new as when the bucket was pulled off them. The ants meandered through them on the ‘Ruta Dels Castells’. ’Follow this one closely, Buster as you will be visiting everyone of them!’ Her mouth watered as she rolled her tongue around the names. They were from not far from here to not far from where my mate was staying, so I could see where she was coming from. Any we couldn’t visit on the way there we could ‘do’ on the way back. Calonge, Palamos, La Bisbal, Pubol.’ I looked down at the ants making their way over the battlements, Sure enough some of them studied every single ceramic pot they came across just like the missus did the first time we went to La Bisbal. ‘Toroella de Montgri, Pals.’ She continued.’ ‘It may prolong active lives dear’ I said ‘but there’s no fucking castle there.’ ‘Look at the ants’ she directed. ‘They can’t differentiate between castles and medieval villages and neither can you.’ Rather harsh I thought, especially as we spent hours looking at the ‘Tower of Hours’ at Pals, the only remaining bit of the castle. For the ants it was true enough. They were walking up mounds of sand which didn’t even have a red and gold flag stuck in them. ‘Peratallada, Palau-sator, Monells and Cruilles’, she purred. Every one of this lot of ants looked big. There were no little ones. I wonder how many of them regretted not having their children with them so they didn’t have an excuse to avoid visiting every castle and every mound as well as every La fucking Piss Pot.
Thankfully one trail has headed off in the opposite direction towards the road and has gone so far that with a bit of luck it will be a non starter for us. It went out the gate and up towards the apartments at the end of the row, the ones with the flowery balconies and the pots of flowers that must take more watering than The Hanging Gardens of Babylon on an Easter Monday; not that there was an Easter Monday in those days. I think it was a Tuesday.’ That’s right’ she said ‘the Ruta Dels Jardins’. Shades of The National Trust. We never used to stop at Motorway service stations to eat. Strictly diesel. She would always find a Stately Home to stop at with a garden to picnic in, a sort of Aire with Graces. One of her favourites is Killerton Gardens near Exeter in Devon. When the traffic is bad on the M5 we call in. We always call in. We’ve been round the house too. It didn’t cost us anything as we are members of The National Trust. It didn’t cost me anything either each and every day during the three terms I lived there in my first year at St Luke’s College. What a saving I would have made. If only I was aware of it at the time. I only used the garden for an occasional leak after my meat and one veg on a Sunday, or was it Tuesday?
Sir Richard Acland and his missus lived there and ran the place. He was also a lecturer at the college, probably to add a bit of class. He used to be a Labour MP at Gravesend, so there were a few connections. At dinner, Lady Anne used to talk about the evacuees from the East End that she put up and by the sound of it put up with during World War II. She said that all they wanted to eat was fish and chips. There’s the connection. I wasn’t meaning class; I lived next door to a Fish and Chip shop in Cornwall. Sir Richard had the graveyard slot of lecturing to the whole year group on three consecutive Saturday mornings giving a religious slant to the theory of Evolution. The least he could have expected was a decent Christian burial. The College had imposed a three line whip. Too many of the previous sex education semenars had been missed. A lot of the women had been late. Some of the boyos had come early. Some of the mature students who were always there didn’t come at all. The place was packed. Most of us couldn’t say three words of Latin let alone write three lines. Yes, the place did have pretensions, not to mention delusions of grandeur.
I took my son to look round the place a few years back. Exeter University was one of his choices for Sports Science. So the College did become grandeur. The various technical supports failed. The team had to do a power pointless off the cuff presentation. In other words they were pretending. So it still seems tin-pot. But like my cricket club I like tin-pot. My son wasn’t deluding himself though. He went to Canterbury. It must have been the cricket. I’d like to say that Sir Richard got a standing ovulation at the end of the first lecture but that would be to demean the man, but everyone did stand and it lasted for a full three minutes. ‘You just can’t help yourself!’ said the missus. We played a lot of sport at Killerton Hall. That was handy as you couldn’t get in the 10th team at the College as everyone was so good. The football pitch was near to the house. You had to clear the cows off the field first. No problem for Sir Richard. He would drive down to the far reaches of the estate and blow his trombone. The whole herd stampeded towards him to low for an encore.
He caught me unawares once. I was white washing the penalty spot as near as I could to the correct place, which wasn’t easy to locate because of all the cow pats in the area. This must have been where penalty shoot-outs were invented going by all the evidence of nervous exhaustion in the same spot. Anyway I had just put the odd hand print on the odd inquisitive cow like the aforementioned Ten Bears used to do on his horse and I was on my mate’s shoulders helping to put up the net when the trombone sounded. I know I’ve mentioned before about not mixing the species but the cows set off like Pavlov’s dogs. They were only beaten to the mark by my mate whose shoulders used to be below me. I hung on to that cross bar like nobody’s business. It was somebody’s business that I fell into however and this time it didn’t emanate from any cow. I played a few games of cricket too, giving slip fielders as much catching practice as I could. They needed it; I went on to make 50 on two occasions.
As I said earlier, the missus paints. Being the missus she calls it botanical studies, so you can see the attraction for her of the places she listed which all have botanical gardens. St Clotilde near Lloret de Mar, Mar I mitra which is close to Blanes, and stuck between the two towns is Pinya de Rosa. All according to the missus have a floribundance of plants rivalling The Garden of Eden. That’s the other one featured in the Biblical Times not in The Cornishman. ‘You can have more than one Mars a day quite safely along this route’, she added. ‘Though Tossa de Mar would do for me all day. So much art work to be admired!’ she sighed. I was about to say that I much preferred works of art, but I said instead ‘What you do with your Mars in the privacy of your own home is up to you dear’. She is right I can’t help myself.
How many more trails of ants? Three is the answer, though I’ve got plans of introducing another one just to make sure there’s an alternative to the mid morning breakfast trail. I know this next party of ants. I have travelled down this particular route before. The missus won’t have to sell the itinerary to me, though of course I’ll play hard to get. The ants have made their way through the seaweed that she has hung up on the wall. She intends to paint it. Not the wall, not the seaweed. It’s going to be another one of those botanical studies. This one’s going to be an under watercolour. Having read the weather forecast the line of ants continued along the coast bound carriageway towards Palafrugell. ’They say that parts of the Costa Brava have succumbed to the tower block syndrome to satisfy the developers and the mass tourist industry. But not here.’ She paused for effect. I was affected. I still am. You know that.
‘This is the area in which you’ll find a couple of corkers’, she informed me referring of course to the cork industry that flourished here. I’m sure she was feeding me the lines, but like so many of the fish that I have cursed over the years I did not rise to the bait, although I did say ‘Any chance of some pork luncheon meat? It’ll make a nice change.’ The ants moved off to the North. They were more on a real Costal path than a coastal carriageway now. ‘You must remember that warm sultry evening in Llafranc’, She reminded me. I could remember the couple of sultry corkers and the warm feeling from that Cremat drink you set fire to before you down it, but I hadn’t put the three of them together. I did now. It was like a non smoker’s dream. One of the sultry ladies came over and asked ‘Have you got a light?’ They glistened as I set light to their Cremat. 5 minutes later the other one sidled across and said ‘Can you blow it out now?’ I know you are supposed to cover it, but I went across to do the deed, trying hard not to be like that Deedes bloke. I ordered one for our table, and set light to it. I beckoned the two women across.’ Can you come over and blow mine?’ I asked. They came across and leaned over the table. Both of them could have kept goal for Spain as sure as eggs is eggs. They took in a deep breath as almost everybody else in the restaurant held theirs.’ Do you think it’s your bloody birthday or what?’ said the missus as she slammed down the lid.
‘It was just after that ‘Cantada d’Havaneres’ sea shanty festival’ she continued. ‘I went this way when I was a young girl with Mum and Dad. I want to find Camping Kim’s near Tamariu where we stayed. It typifies what is on this ‘Ruta de Les Cales’. A beautiful craggy cove. Hours of swimming and snorkelling in the clear blue sea. Lying out and drying off on the golden sands, cliffs and inlets to explore. You can follow the route campsite by campsite. Moby Dick, La Siesta and at least two Kim’s as you stroll from Calella to Llafranc and drive the short distance to Tamariu. We had a Corsair. We didn’t get as far as Begur. It didn’t seem so welcoming.’ Don’t take it personally’, I told her. ‘I think it was more the Corsair rather than you. Begur had its fair share of pirates and corsairs in the pre-Johnny Depp Middle Ages’. ‘Luckily the concrete couldn’t get a secure footing in the nooks and crannies during more modern times, reducing the invasion of the crooks and nannies. That’s the only reason so much of the area is unspoilt, to be frank’, I told her tuning in to her theme. ‘You know what I mean Harry?’ she replied. ‘Wrong theme!’ I said, refusing to let her off the hook.’ You’ve come a bit of a Crocker there’, I suggested. ‘It’s My only Vice, mon ami’ she declared. ‘It should be my ami’, I told her. Like cricket it’s a funny old game.
One of the trails hadn’t broken ranks it was forming them. They appeared more aggressive than normal with a very direct style of approach as if it they were programmed for Today and to hell with tomorrow. Maybe they had a low pH count. They had captured a little beetle that they were pushing in front of them. I think it was a shield bug. Some were trading places or Emporion as they call them here with some ground beetles that must have been ear wigging their plans. This seemed a busy intersection with some of the ants bearing right, some bearing left and some bearing gifts. A lonely tree hopper eyed them suspiciously. They were dragging a luckless maggot with them. The resident entomologist on my right who was studying the advance through the binoculars identified it. ‘It’s a horse fly larva’, she announced. Well the ants mustn’t have thought much of it as they left it by a crack in the wall and a load of red ants came out and dragged it inside the crack as the black ants moved off.
I think we must be on a busy intersection too as there was one heck of a screech. No it wasn’t a VW beetle but the driver was a spit of Yoko Ono. Unlike the First Punic war the phoney war was soon over, the missus was in full flow again after my short break.’ I don’t know whether to take you up the Ruta de Les Cultures or up the Ruta Del Cap de Creus.’ I knew that there was a Gulf between them and I’d realised that which ever one she chose it wasn’t going to be a bed of Roses. My sestertius is on the latter as the the Cap de Creus used to be known as Kap Aphrodision and she knows my Achilles heel. ‘Culture you need and culture you will get’, she said proving me wrong once again and ruining a possible line about the French finally destroying the Arsenal.’ These are the sort of busts I don’t mind you looking at.’ she giggled, holding up a guide book with a picture of a green goddess on it. They must have emported them from us to cope with the dry spell they’ve been having here. ‘Those are the sort of floors I don’t mind you scrubbing.’ I replied, spotting a picture of a first century mosaic floor from a Roman villa on the reverse page. ‘How would you describe your first century?’ ‘Mosaic.’
Such descriptions have been sadly denied to our cricketing press as the Romans invaded us and we became part of their empire rather than the other way around. True some have crept in. I can remember Botham being described as a colossus and Lord’s as a temple. Cardus denied himself nothing. He described Hutton’s stroke play to be ‘classical enough to be on a pedestal,’ and one of Peter May’s drives as being ‘handsome enough for the cricketer’s Parthenon.’ I played with his namesake for years for Swanscombe and Greenhithe. I first came across him in a school match that I umpired. He towered over everybody. He died a young man. He batted like an Inzamam-ul-Hac. He didn’t run much. Like Inzamam he didn’t need to. He was no Cardus but he could turn a phrase or two. He was in the bar holding a celebratory pint poured from the jug I’d bought. I’d taken 9-36 against Southborough. Another gleeful recipient said ‘Mike bowled well’. Peter took it from there. ‘No’ he asserted, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Mike did not bowl well. He bowled fucking well’. Rest in fucking peace, Peter.
The ruins stretch right down to the shore. If only some of our coastline had been blessed with such ruins it could have prevented people ruining the coastline over the centuries.’ The very stones you have seen the JCB lifting could themselves have been lifted from the ancient town’, she said. Despite the sense of history she was imparting I was not about to offer to move them any further. I’d be prepared to arrange some small stones and pebbles in as an artistic a fashion as I could manage to acknowledge the hard work and skill of the Stone Age ancestors of Obelix, Asterix’s mate, give or take a few hundred kilometres or so, who loved nothing better than to lug a few menhirs around. These can be seen along the Ruta Megalitica I Preromanica, which is just to the left of the gate by the outside tap. It did take a massive effort, but it was easier than building a fortress abbey on the rockery, which would probably be kicked to pieces by future Germanic hordes who are likely to visit here soon going by the number of beach towels on the walls. Their children would be in the vanguard of it all for sure. I’ve seen some of them in town. All spiky chains dog collars, black lipstick and stuff. Goths I think they’re called.’ The route will track the remains of the Greek, Roman, Phoenician, Carthaginian and Carlovingian cultures.’ She was definitely taking the piss with this last lot; for one thing they didn’t have cars in those days so there would not have been any to love. Next she’d be telling me to look out on the trek for Romulan monasteries and Clingonian abbeys, lovingly restored by the Vulcans. Oh yes this is culture alright, but not as we know it, Jim.
I never used to understand why cricketers moaned about being away on tour. I wasn’t so critical of the generations past as they had to spend weeks aboard ship. It must have been hard to keep in trim. The one side to take advantage of the time was Jardine’s lot, and they only practised as far as the equator, as all the balls were lost over the port side. They stopped at Port Said on the way back but none were handed in. I now know where their modern counterparts were coming from or rather going to. Just one touring party to go but I’ve had a belly full. Talk about bodyline, I’m so exhausted I couldn’t follow a knicker line, another disappearing species I’m led to believe.
This particular route is another certainty for us to follow. I can see it in her waters. The ants seem confused. They are probably worried that if they have to go all the way along the track to Port Bou to go over the border into the French family’s apartment, they will have to adjust their undercarriage to allow for the different gauge of the track on the French side. They need not worry; the Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes will be the furthest they will be expected to travel. They’d better have their sea legs with them as after Cadaques and Portlligat there will be a trip around that Cap de Creus. We will be following in the footsteps of all the greats.’ She promised. ’Picasso, Dali, Segovia.’ ‘I didn’t know he could paint.’ I said. She continued unphased. ‘Cadaques has attracted great artists and thinkers for years.’ ‘I’ll wait for you outside’, I quipped.’ That painting we bought last holiday was of Cadaques.’ I want to see where it was painted from. I want to stand in the exact spot and get some inspiration’. If the ants were to accompany her they would need more than their sea legs if it’s the picture I’m thinking of. They’d need their swimming trunks, their diving gear and their waterproof paints.’ It’s got depth and atmosphere’ she said.’ I’ll tell them to come up to periscope depth before they come up for air.’ ‘I’m glad I’m only with you for a tour around the bay and not a tour overseas’, she snapped. I heard the jaws of the ants snapping in agreement. A loud blood curdling cry came from above, followed by the hiss of an aerosol. If they did manage a moment of cordon bleu it had turned out to be a pyrrhic victory. Just like the older cricketers in the changing room when the youngsters start to spray away, and the Roman war veterans pensioned off by Caesar on the outskirts of L’Escala, with the isigoths as the next opponents, the ants knew their time had come. Perhaps chicken and chips with just the threat of peri peri sauce is not so bad after all.
