Sheila packed us off on one of those terrible 'touristy' trips around the island. We went for free, thank God. A coach took us up a mountain or should I say volcano, where we had a camel ride. The woman sat behind us described Timanfaya as 'a slag heap', suggesting that the National Coal Board should perhaps do similar trips in Wales. Bumpy, but fun. Our beast didn't spit or urinate and was very well behaved. To a bodega. Salt mines. El Golfo. Had lunch in a great hall at Yaiza. I had the very peculiar feeling that at any moment the door would be kicked open and that we'd be mercilessly machine-gunned, like the Nazis did to innocent French villagers in the last war. Odd, I know.
We dined out alone tonight. Had lasagne and Mateus rosé. To the Waikiki and Banana disco, then the Joker, which was all mirrors and claustrophobic. Taxis everywhere. Back at 2:30. We never dance. A jolly good evening.
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