Moving on

Rain. Nato issue kite rubbish flapping. An apology: somewhere the word ‘poncho’ means Clint and Spaghetti Western chic, but no, here it’s not like that. At all. Here it’s me draped in green plastic, billowing uncontrollably in a mild wind. After two minutes I’m wondering what exactly the function of this diaphonous sail might be. I gerry rig a length of cord about me – so now I’ve graduated from plastic kite man to plastic bondage man. At least I won’t take off.

I march on, along a spectacular promenade ten metres above the sea, buffeted by the wind and my own indignation. The rain finds me out. It is a fantastic walk.

Later a convent welcomes us to its walled garden and creaking beds, whilst the local parishioners practice their stamping feet, clanging bells and beating drums in the church next door. It sounds jolly, although oddly Germanic.