As the tomatoes die off, I'm planting mustard...

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... to recondition the soil.

    

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Hostel : Glasgow : Night moves

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I’ve dug up a bit out of an old travel journal.   One night while tucked up in our beds, all eight guys were woken by loud female shouting, out in the stairwell. A truly sublime pair of unfettered bosoms, filled to the quivering liquid brim with booze, burst through the door. She was atmospherically rim lit by light spilling in through the open doorway as she bounced into the room, and planted rank alcoholic kisses on the guy occupying the bed nearest the door. A girlfriend appeared and dragged our invader back to her room. A heavy, round silence closed around us and when it seemed that no more action would unfold, one of the guys on a bottom bunk got up and closed the dorm door. On another occasion, I was woken by someone moving close to my bed. Something must have been up, cause the guy that sleeps below me usually doesn’t interrupt my slumber. A head was moving around in the dark, and I recognised its silhouette as the young guy who occupies the lower bunk across the room.
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Grape update: Jan

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The grapes have started to ripen.... Which means my competition with the birds is on. The local black birds don't seem to be concerned with how sweet the fruit is. They will happily eat the green unripe grapes. I've noticed them swallow fruit whole so I don't think they care about taste. Word seems to be being passed about. The number of visitors seems to be increasing as the month slips by. I have been protecting individual grape bunches with plastic mesh bags. Ran out of bags so tried to protect the rest with a net.       These birds are diabolically sly and managed to muscled through gaps. I've purchased some more bags and now what is left of the crop has some sort of protection. Found that the birds have now started to pull the bags off, so I'm securing them with clothes pegs.    
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Spanish dolphins holiday (cont.)

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Entry for September 22, 2006: Back again. We’re back in Almaria, and the weather has trapped us in port again. We all decided to splash out and have lunch in a Spanish restaurant on shore. We made ourselves comfortable round a big table in the shade. I must be getting my sea legs cause I’m noticing the absence of movement when I step on land (sitting on the loo in the enclosed cubical of the shower block amplifies the sensation.) The local drink isn’t Sangria. It’s a mixture of red wine and lemonade. Really nice on a hot Mediterranean day, accompanying a big black pan of Paella. We all take a turn preparing meals on the boat. No one is taking the task of ‘feeding the crew’ lightly, and I’ve had some great dinners. Lunch is usually served out at sea. A selection of cold meats, salad vegi´s, bread, cheese, tinned tuna, and assorted cold leftovers are spread out over the section of cabin that I have been sleeping on. We all build salad plates or sandwiches for oursel
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