The cave house next to ours is let out to weekly renters. A green-eyed German with a ponytail came out of his cave to stand on his terrace and look for the Blood Moon at the same time as I stood 30 yards farther along the ledge to look. There was no moon to be seen and we spread our arms and opened our palms to each other in that universal expression of frustration. I knew he had green eyes because earlier I had knocked on his door and presented him with two boxes of pastries, which I had been given, but Catriona cannot eat pastries because she is allergic to eggs, so we passed them on. I’d had a few drinks and was maybe a bit tousled and my eyes were probably glazed. As I stood on his doorstep and mutely presented him with the enormous patisserie boxes, the green German eyes registered first surprise, then gratitude, then as they focused on mine, benevolent pity.
He and his partner left on Saturday morning and were replaced in the afternoon by two sweating silent men dragging designer luggage behind them. In the evening, on my return from the village rock concert featuring the incredible Johnny Gallagher, we returned to our grotto via a narrow cliff path which passes beneath their terrace. Catriona says I fell over ‘at least 25 times’ going up the cliff, and three times in ten yards as I passed in front of this pair of gents reclining on their Lafumas and silently sipping their rosé under the stars.
Our grotto house is a tiny one-up one-down affair but wonderfully cool inside and one perches on the lavatory next to a gnarled wall of volcanic rock pitted with nooks and crannies.
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