Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Laguna


Whizzing down the hill, 
You skidded dangerously. 
We cycled on until, 
we reached the rocks and sea. 

Fourteen days and nights
in Tito’s former gaff, 
a thirteenth century house, full of paintings. 

We hired a couple of bikes, and headed up the coast
to the swish of sea and smell of pine. 
We pulled up at the security gates of a Naturist Resort. 
Beyond the barriers, nude Germans shuffled around in flip flops. 

The sun was pure and dazzling – not good for private parts, surely. 
Are they still private when exposed in hard sun? 
We chuckled at the prospect, secure in our clothes, 
got back on our bikes, and pushed ourselves up a long ascending road. 
Bracken either side. 

Turning back towards the old peninsular town, 
we pushed and pushed and swerved and swore; and eventually reached the house. 
You kicked down the bike stand;
I fiddled around with the door key, impatiently.

Inside, cool thirteenth century gloom - and paintings, now familiar. 
We glugged down warm water urgently, and collapsed onto the sofa, satisfied. 

After crusty bread, cheese and more water - out into sun again. 
We kicked the bike stands back and off we went, 
this time to the South, passing groups and touts - 
the chemical smells of suntan lotion fading to pine and sea. 
We pushed to the top of a perfumed outcrop, surrounded by waves. 
I sat in the shade, as you climbed the rocks. 

On again; pushing hard and upwards, 
away from hotels, towards buzzing glades. 
Hard and upwards to the top of the road. 

A moment of bliss as the pedaling ceases. 
For a long second, land and sea roll out before us. 

Slowly at first rolling down the steepening hill, quickening. 
The crickets constant as the trees blur. 
At full speed now, wind in our hair and eyes. 

Suddenly you braked and skidded dangerously, flopping this way and that. 
For one eternal second it looked like you would roll sideways. A high speed slow-mo horror. 
I could only watch, hands tightening around the handle bars. 
Somehow, however, you stabilised and careered onwards, 
downwards, in a straight, untroubled line. 

At the bottom, a sparkling laguna. 
We pulled up and raised our phones with narrowing eyes. 
You, jittery but amused at my horror, sought out a plastic table. 
I locked up the bikes. 
A waiter presented us with two ice cold drinks – heaven doesn’t come close. 
We stared out, and said nothing.