tears over ridges in a white frothed rage and threatens to drag us all down. Now we understand why there is no street drainage. The town is built along a natural watercourses, which sweep down from the rocky hillsides. I have seen these dried up rivers on the other side of the island, but no one warned us about this!
‘We can’t go on,’ I hear a voice behind me. But, there’s no alternative, so one by one we wade through the water. The foaming torrent is more spectacular than forceful, and by inching ourselves closer to the side of the buildings it’s possible to make progress slowly through the rapid waters. We’re all bedraggled when we climb aboard the
bus on the other side of the town. The bus driver seems unconcerned, hardly looking up; he’s seen it all before, what do you expect from crazy tourists?
My watch face has steamed up, blurring time and the warm embrace of sunshine. Everything seems far removed from our last evening and the lingering goodbyes that happened only hours ago. ‘We must stay in touch,’ seems now like a washed out hope, when there are ferries and planes to catch. I’m sure that after our eventual return, they’re will be the usual flurry of e-mails, and holiday photographs for a while, then memories will start to fade as people return to normality and hopefully to the warmth of dry clothes once again.
John Greeves is a creative writing tutor. He originally hails from Lincolnshire. He gained a Masters degree at Cardiff University and previously worked at Sussex University. When he’s not teaching for Continuing and Professional Education, he writes poetry, short stories and features, and runs the occasional workshop.
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