Word from the front; we've landed at Tryp Indalo with no casualties to report. The journey from Murcia was long if uneventful, save for the battering wind that threatened to shove our minivans off the road at various exposed points. Shirts distributed and seem to be well received. That's a load off my hand luggage
Every year I check in before scurrying off to raid the local supermarket for bread, mantequilla, honey, bananas, water, orange juice and, this year, my current morning tiple, fortified tomato juice. I've no doubt that as in each previous years I'll leave a collection of semi-stale bread, half-mauled butter and a few blackened bananas for the maids to remove. And, this year, a bottle of whatever-the-hell I mistook for tomato juice; it pours rather like salsa dip and contains more toxic E's than a Yorkshireman's rant. Managed to cleans my palate with a visit to the corner bakery with surprise guest Niguel, SP and Claire to indulge in a mountain of mini-pain au raisin, generous slices of apple tart buried under an avalanche of sugar, and any number of baked items smothered in thick, dark chocolate. Oh well :o
Antonio has been a brick - sorting out all manner of requests and queries at race registration. What would we do without him? Flounder horribly I suspect. Pasta supper beckons, then the small matter of keeping SP out of the bars until race time. I confess to being extremely tired and not a little irrascible, for which I apologise unreservedly to my fellow RC-racers.
I'll be much better tomorrow when the work's done and the play's begun . . .
Selah
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph