Island Life

It’s a cold, windy Saturday night. Darkness arrives early and completely. Life unfolds slowly and quietly. We’re slipping into early retirement, we joke. Those of us with no pets, children or partners. There’s time to research nutrition and if eggs are that bad for us. Hours and be wasted doing this.

Of course, there are interesting observations to be made. The locals are short, speak with a quirky twang and being mostly farmers, are not very educated or worldly. The houses which were constructed from stone and cement decades or even centuries ago are like cottages for gnomes.

People drive like they’re drunk. Perhaps they are. There’s the ocean nearby, with craggy rocks, and sandy beaches. Hundreds of tangerine groves, which should smell sweet and citrusy are tainted by the pungent farm animal smells.

There are winding country roads and stone fences. One could be forgiven for thinking they were traipsing about the Irish seaside. But then the palm trees would give it away. But it’s not quite Hawaii either.

At times it could be a Third World country, with stray mangy dogs snooping around. Hunched over old women foraging for herbs on the side of the road. Swerve around a bend or two and there are palatial hotels and the busiest airport in the world.

Confusing? Disorienting? Full of contradictions? Above all, hard to make sense of.

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