1am on a Sunday night in a sleepy Menorquin town

The interesting thrill of new roads has long since died away. The train between Cornwall and Devon is now a tired chore.

The estuary water at Saltash still twinkles away in the sunlight, far below, but I now begin to notice the dead kelp and discarded Pepsi bottles drifting alongside the orange and blue sailing dinghies.

 

The scorched grass lining the embankment into Plymouth threatens to combust and engulf the train in its licking flames, taking the all familiar sun-hatted men with them.

These men haven’t moved for months. They remain in their small gateways, peeking over the fences, unwashed hats now bleached by the sun. Once white, these floppy rags, now a greenish yellow sit despondently atop their balding heads.

 

Slowly the old grey and burnt grasses of Cornwall begin to recede and make way for the verdant pastures and cool Oak groves of Devon.

The tired white horses outside Totnes take shelter from the beating sun under exploding hedgerows. Their hoofs now kicking up dust and stones where only a few months ago, they sank slowly into a muddy pit.

 

***

 

Seven days later our small rickety plane touches down on the dusty runway of Mahon airport. The stark, barren brush land outside of the boundary fence cries out for hydration.

 

Julio and I pass quickly through the airport formalities and soon find ourselves sucking on dry cigarettes in the cool evening air.

I feel good about myself. Confident, strong and secure, all feelings I’ve come to expect over the last seven days have vanished.

I consciously ponder this notion and breathe cigarette smoke through my nose as Ramona’s green Citroen pulls into view. I catch her eye, sat behind the wheel, radiant brown skin illuminating the white cigarette between her lips. As her golden brown hair is swept up by the wind, breaking our eye contact, I fall headlong into a dark hole.

 

For the rest of the night, smoking cigarettes in her flat, at dinner in a waterside restaurant in Punta Prima, or quickly nailing mojitos in Es Castell, all conversation is a distant murmur. My ears pick up the sounds of sand on the wind or groups of young boys wolf-whistling to groups of young girls. An elderly waiter singing songs he heard as a child, to himself, or the low whirr of mopeds in the distance.

I feel utterly disengaged. Every now and again my and Julio’s eyes would meet and I could read pity and understanding.

Tonight he does the talking. I try to refrain but I can do nothing but stare into space and smoke endless cigarettes.

 

At 3am we arrive back at Ramona’s. I’ve barely said a word for hours and it would almost be strange for me to start now. We sit around for a while and soon enough they both retire.

I’m left to sit and try to rearrange my badly scrambled brain.

The cool Mediterranean wind blows through the door leading to the small balcony, clogging my head with dust and humid unsavouries. I’ll put off sleep for as long as I can, before I creep past her bedroom and fall silently into the single bed next door, accompanied by Julio across the room with his deep belly snore.

 

*

 

I slept all but two hours that night. I lay awake, eyes frozen on the ceiling until 6.30am, urging Ramona through the wall to reach through my bedroom door, squeeze my foot and invite me to her bed.

I fell asleep with the hot morning sun on my weary face and The Black Cat scratching around beneath my bed.

 

I slept a troubled sleep and rose as 8.30am with the flat quiet, save the cat relentlessly running his flank around my legs and purring in a pitying manner.

I read until 10.30am when Ramona hurriedly left for work; blowing me a kiss as she walked through the door. Soon enough, Julio woke up, leaving me to sleep for an hour or so, on the sofa while he bought groceries.

We cooked a meal of eggs and set out under the new burning sun.

 

Under a crystal blue sky we meandered slowly through the colonial streets and down to the port. Rich oranges and burnt umber’s only intensified the heat, giving the impression of baking sand piled high on either side. In the sun-drenched square of Santa Maria the only soothing colours were occasional fruit trees and the calm blue sky. Everything else seemed to pulse with a relentless heat.

Uninflated balloons fluttered in the wind from a balcony above the library and a young couple sat embraced on a bench.

Julio and I made our way down the Costa De Ses Voltes to the rich port, past mature orange trees and fragrant rosemary bushes. For an hour or so we trundled along past the quiet restaurants and sleek, expensive yachts, the backs of our necks slowly cooking in the sun.

The strong winds and fresh salt air cleared my groggy head and steered us slowly back up the winding streets to Bar San Jorge, where we watched a strong Mexican side have their quarter final spot snatched from under their nose in the 94^th minute. I felt it a valid reason to feel slightly more despondent. We left the bar with its old men and card games, and made our way back to the flat.

 

Later that night Julio, Ramona and I ate in a small portside bar called Baixamar, owned by friends of hers. Despite all of the sunshine wonder and strange faces I’d pondered over during the course of the day, I again slipped into the role of, ‘Mute with clenched jaw’. I listened on as Ramona recanted her plans to disappear to foreign, distant places. I envisaged her entangled with Juan in a secluded cove, not caring for the sand that rubbed harshly between their stomachs. I steadily drank myself into a heady blur and opted to walk back to the flat alone while Julio and Ramona took the car.

 

I walked slowly, trying not to appear drunk, taking intentional wrong turns and avoiding buildings I recognised, looking for trouble of some kind. But it was 1am on a Sunday night in a sleepy Menorquin town.

Back at the flat, Julio and Ramona sat talking on the balcony. The Black Cat purred his sweet nothings at the woman and I smoked a cigarette at the table with my back against the wall. I bid them both goodnight as they got up and left and remained in my spot, staring through the balcony doors at the flickering orange lights, a mile off in the distance.

It was warmer now the wind had dropped.

 

*

 

I awoke in an empty room at 10.30am. I dressed and left my bed unmade. In the living room Julio and Ramona sat talking over coffee and cigarettes. After a decent and dreamless sleep I felt able to hold a conversation with Ramona without keeping my eyes fixed on the cold floor tiles.

Twenty minutes later we made our way out to the industrial estate to hire a car. After one failed attempt and one sudden realisation the both Julio and I had left our licences at the flat, Ramona drove us back to hers and left us on the street outside. She kissed me on both cheeks and drove off into the sun, already ten minutes late for work.

We climbed the stairs and ate eggs while The Black Cat sat on the third seat, watching intently. After eating we walked back through the hot streets and the dense air to pick up a car, laden with the proper credentials, only to be rejected once more for only dealing in cash.

 

We soon found ourselves, backs against a filthy bollard, chewing on apricots, sharing a bottle of soda water and staring into a busy roundabout. The hot sun began to take its toll after half an hour, slowly pushing us back to the shade of the flat.

With the help of Ramona, inside two hours we sealed a cash deal for a whippy silver Opel, breaking our shackles from the dusty pavements of Mahon.

Ramona left us to visit her grandmother so I parked the car across from her flat and we sauntered inside to have a celebratory beer. We soon decided it best to move the car to a free spot on the main drag before heading out for the night.

Out in the car park, Julio climbed behind the wheel and turned the key, instantly propelling us forward into another parked car.

I had left the vehicle in gear, as is my custom and he had not checked the stick before starting the car, as it’s not his custom to do so. The front fender had been completely torn open by the nose of the other car, peeling off their number plate and leaving it folded in half inside the flimsy plastic hanging from the front of ours.

With heads pumping and eyes darting to pick out any onlooker, Julio reshaped the number plate while I reattached the fender to our car, and then quickly hightailed it out of the car park to a spot 100 meters down the road.

After much deliberation, we decided to head back to Bar San Jorge and put the incident to the back of our minds. It didn’t take long.

 

We spent the evening in a leisurely manner, eating in a restaurant on the harbour, sipping coffee under fruit trees and walking slowly through unfamiliar alleyways.

For a while we sat on a windowsill on Carrer De Sant Elies, listening to a faceless body play beautiful classical Spanish guitar. The dusky mournful notes drifted down through the open green shutters, circled our heads for a moment and floated off on the warm breeze. Occasionally the picking would stop, followed by the inimitable click of a lighter, before resuming again.

We made our way on, heady and uplifted by the sweet notes, down to a small bar where we spent the rest of the night, sipping small beers, conversing with drunken Frenchmen and urging Algeria past Germany into the quarter finals.

Slowly the crowd dwindled and our shouts became less enthused. We soon meandered up the paved streets to the flat. Ramona would not return that night, staying with her sister before setting up an exhibition early the next morning.

Julio and I smoked our last cigarettes and he soon fell asleep on the sofa, quietly hiccupping up the evening’s beer.

I sat at the table for a couple of hours with the car keys in front of me and Tim Buckley playing out his sorrowful love songs across the room. The flickering orange lights didn’t seem so far off anymore, nor did the end of our stay in Mahon and the last time I would see Ramona. The Black Cat curled and purred at my feet as I lay in bed that night, comforting my beating heart and vowing to claw the other from my sleeve.

 

*

 

The Tuesday sun sat full and heavy in an unbroken blue sky. The warm wind blew in from the south and tickled the hairs on my arms as I stood on the balcony smoking a cigarette. After breakfast Julio and I washed and packed towels and water before pulling out onto the only main road on the island. Two lanes, one running either way led us out past L’Argentina into the dry scrubland synonymous with the rural Mediterranean. Long dry stone walls separated the fields, casting strange pocked marked shadows where the sun shone through the gaps.

Thin, thirsty mules stood at the side of the road taking refuge in any possible shade, willing their dusty hair to moult away and have the breeze touch on their bare hides.

 

Thirty minutes later, I pulled the car into a large rock-strewn field and came to a stop near the gate. The sickening stench of suntan lotion and the holidaying British hung in the air, forcing us steadily across the hot sand to the west end of the beach at Son Boa.

We settled in a spot with the forest behind us and the turquoise sea ahead. The relentless scratch of crickets filled the air, sounding over the intermittent roar of the waves. As the hours rolled on, we slept under the white hot sun, smoked cigarettes and cooled our heads in the waves. I made the mistake of taking my dark complexion for granted and forewent the sun cream, always finding the inimitable scent sickening and reminiscent of British families looking more like well-cooked lobsters.

By the time 4pm rolled around and we pulled out of the rocky field, my whole body was tingling and I felt every hair on my legs twitch in the wind. Back at the flat, I showered and slept for a time while Julio drove off to buy groceries.

I lay on the bed wishing my life with Ramona had panned out the way I’d hoped. I’d lie in her bed at night waiting for her to return from work, when I’d hold her in my arms and kiss the back of her neck as she’d sleep through a peaceful night. I longed to meet her eyes as she opened them for the first time every morning, and kiss her soft lips as she left for work.

I fell back to sleep and dreamt a strange recurring dream.

 

That night, Julio and I ate little and wandered aimlessly through the busy, sloping streets. Old men played cards and drank sherry in small squares. Young children ran and danced before sweating guitarists in tight-fitting t-shirts, clapped on by their doting parents. We played out the rest of the night in a small North African bar, drinking coffee and joining in with the locals cheering Belgium through into the quarter finals.

Later, back at the flat, I sat at the table writing until Julio left for bed. Ramona would be staying at her grandmother’s that night. For an hour I sat on the balcony smoking cigarettes with The Black Cat for company, knowing that she wasn’t thinking of me.

 

*

 

I slept a long, strange sleep. My night was haunted by women from my past, cackling together at the-now faded-heart I wore upon my sleeve. Together they laughed and whispered, spitting at my feet. Ramona was at the forefront of the gaggle, belittling eyes staring deep in to my soul.

 

I awoke shortly before noon, cold. The wind howled through the flat. The thin sheet billowed and rippled on top of me, forcing me up and into my shorts.

By 1pm, Julio and I were walking a heavily wooded path down to Cala Mitjana. At the modest beach, the Mediterranean Sea spat blue waves onto the white sand. Two dozen or so people sat around talking or sleeping under the clouds, while others frolicked in the warm surf. As we climbed the forged steps along the cliff and headed up to the plateau towards Cala Trebaluger, the air hung thick and heavy with moisture, almost creating a barrier through which we trudged while scrambling over rocks and silver roots, crossing the path like serpents.

The forest path steadily declined past huge boulders and dense green thickets, eventually opening out onto Cala Trebaluger. The azure blue waters lapped at the thin beach and a small white yacht bobbed steadily, two hundred yards from shore.

Julio and I took shelter from the wind in a small cave and ate sandwiches. Used tissues and a tampon applicator littered the floor, keeping or time there to a minimum.

 

Within fifteen minutes we were climbing another steep rocky path to the next plateau. Hot wind whipped around our heads and the sea crashed onto the cliffs, 150 feet below. Soon the path led out onto a dead coral shelf. The rock stood sharp and jagged, riddled with holes. We treaded along the strange lunar landscape for fifteen minutes before coming to a road, slightly inland, up the cliff from Cala Fustam. The road led down to a dirty beach, and upon arriving, Julio sprinted for the water. With my back turned, reading a placement map, I didn’t witness his rapid plunge into a wide pool of quicksand. He yelled out and called me over to find him shoeless and covered to the knees in brown flakes and oily slime. Neither of us made much of an effort to retrieve the shoes from the murk, but he seemed adamant that he wanted to continue on up the trail. By the time we reached Cala Escorxada, twenty-five minutes later, I could tell he was in pain. The rock-strewn paths were unforgiving and made little easy for the soft soles of Julio’s feet. We rested for a while on the white sand, looking out to the open sea. Despite the clouds, the sun still shone its heat down upon us, stinging my skin and punishing me for my mistakes of the previous day.

 

After a while we decided to head back the way we’d come. We were both feeling tired and hungry and I assumed Julio wanted to get his barefoot ordeal over and done with. I gave him my thick socks as a token gesture, knowing it would barely make a difference.

Julio spoke little on the walk back, only ever airing his delight once we stepped onto sand at each of the three beaches we passed. Each one akin to walking on clouds compared to the minefields we navigated between them.

Once on the home straight, I steamed ahead and pulled the car around to save Julio from the rocky field we had parked in. He slept until we arrived in Mahon, the pain draining every last drop of energy from him.

 

Back at the flat, Julio showered while I smoked cigarettes on the balcony. The clouds still pulled overhead spicing the air with a dangerous electricity. I made coffee for the two of us and returned to the balcony to light another cigarette. As I looked down to the street, I noticed a policeman in black aviators assisting a tow-truck in hooking up our car. Within thirty seconds Julio was down on the street, hands clasped together in prayer, pleading with the greasy fucker in shades. It seemed that as I had made the coffee, Julio would have to deal with the Policia.

It panned out that I had parked in front of a garage incurring a €130 penalty. We reluctantly coughed up knowing that we’d been stung for being turistas.

 

Soon after, Ramona arrived. Her brown legs cut through the slit in her skirt as she crossed the street and I longed for every inch of her body as she argued in Spanish on the phone to the police headquarters. Her passion and fight for our cause made my heart beat and my palms sweat.

 

That night she was free, so the three of ate sushi down at the harbour. Only twice that night did I have a moment alone with her, and we arranged to go for breakfast the next day. I needed explaining to me, like a broken-hearted child, why she no longer wanted to be with me. As one tends to, I expected the worst. I could hear the name of her new man ringing in my ears, twelve hours before she would utter a word on the subject.

Later that night, at a small terrace bar, we sat engulfed by the warm winds whipping in from the port. I could tell Ramona would rather be elsewhere, sipping on her iced water.

Behind her sat a tall woman of about thirty, her dark hair tied up with a blue bandana. Every time my eyes passed from Ramona’s face to the woman’s, she would be staring into my eyes, not once looking away. I began to feel weird and messed up, my emotions swilling inside my gut. I couldn’t handle my screwy head and was glad when we left.

 

Julio and Ramona crashed within thirty minutes of arriving at the flat. I stayed at the table to write and listen to the traffic for a while. Later I sat cross-legged on the balcony with a cigarette in my lips, nervous for breakfast the following day. For weeks I had had a thousand questions I’d wanted answered, but now my brain was blank and my chest hurt. I listened to the deep thunder as it rolled in from the sea, and watched on as sheets of lightning illuminated the orange sky over Mahon.

I hoped for a dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

By the time I awoke, Julio had already left for the south coast.

Ramona’s door sat ajar and I looked in on her beautiful sleeping face as I passed through into the kitchen. I made coffee and sat on the balcony with a cigarette until she emerged in a pair of small shorts and a thin grey top. We talked casually over breakfast before rolling cigarettes and cracking on with the true matter at hand.

She explained her reasons for leaving me, insisting profusely that there wasn’t another man. Despite her apologies and truthful eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to believe her. Nothing seemed to add up, but in her head all was said and done and she had wiped her slate clean.

 

We spent the afternoon in the beach at Son Boa with her eleven year old cousin, Ivan.

Every moment of the day I spent with Ramona, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my burnt arms around her and kiss her soft lips. It hurt badly and my heavy heart beat away dangerously beneath my reddened skin. Oh man, it hurt.

 

We arrived at the flat before Julio and I showered while Ramona walked her cousin home.

Julio soon returned and thirty minutes later I found myself sat on the sofa with Ramona asleep next to me, her slight chest rising and falling as she breathed deeply.

Julio was showering and I toyed with the idea of putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards me. The near certainty that I’d be knocked back and humiliated kept me at bay.

 

Later that night, Julio and I sat on the street outside Nou Bar in the centre of town, sipping halves of Estrella. Ramona and her friend Maria were pacing the streets looking for new work clothes.

It struck me for the first time how much I’d come to rely on Julio over the past five days. He had become my rock in which confide in; to air all disastrous feelings to. I would always look back on this strange, horrible time, no matter how hard I’d try to forget it, and remember Julio Cristian, who never wished harm on anybody and was there when I needed him the most.

 

At dinner that night, I sat opposite Ramona and tried my best to keep my eyes off her. I tried to unmuddle my brain by talking for once, chipping into any conversation spoken in English, only to realise that she would only talk directly to Julio and Maria, stopping briefly to glance in my direction. This idea played on my mind all night.

Down at Baixamar watching a rock’n’roll band, playing Doors covers, or sat in the back of Ramona’s car watching her eyes in the rear view mirror.

 

I’d come to realise that I was completely unable to be in her company without a feeling of gut-wrenching heartache. I was completely aware that I had to forget about her and stride on with my life, but I had foolishly put that on hold for ten days, moved into her flat and mourned night after night in a single bed next door to her bedroom.

I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and wake up in my own bed, surrounded by palms and records, knowing that I would be free to ride on past the cold estuary, out to the sea and shut the beautiful, strong Spanish woman from my mind. But I was secure in the knowledge that I would sweat out another night, longing for, but knowing that I would never be beckoned to her bed again.

 

*

 

*The following two days passed in a dry haze, wetted only by alcohol and the sea. I managed to scrawl brief accounts which paint an unshapely depiction of our experiences. *

 

*

Lazy day. Groceries. See Ramona at 5pm. Drive to Cuitadella. Dusty carpark. Labyrinthine streets. Colonial buildings. Sun setting over palms. Woman drying her hair in an open window. Ramones bar. Cheap gin with The Kids. Jazz Bah. Roof terrace. Argentinian drug-runners. Turning down propositions from a gay man at 6am. Night in the car.

 

*

 

Wake up sweating. Sleep while Julio drives. No normality. Wake at beach. Mad heads in the shade. Bread and eggs will right the wrongs. Too many arseholes. Walk to Cala Macareletta. Cold sea clears heads. Drive back to Mahon with Julio asleep. Rural Menorca. Dry fields and scorched earth. Alone with San Jorge. Quiet night while Julio sips pomada with gypsies.

 

*

 

When I awoke I felt as though my time in Mahon was drawing to a close. Julio had left early that morning. He’d scrawled a note on the back of a postcard telling me he’d headed to Sant Tomas to play his ukulele in the sand.

Ramona had slept at her grandmother’s the night before, leaving me alone with The Black Cat. I spent hours alone in the shade, reading, writing and watching bad television. The silent, solitary break was very welcome.

Around 4pm, Julio returned to the flat and soon crashed face down on his bed, drained by the afternoon heat.

Another thirty minutes later, Ramona appeared. She seemed exhausted and overworked. I tried my best to keep my mind from slipping back into its usual habits, watching her eating ice cream from the tub, brown legs crossed beneath her. She was due back at work at 6pm, so barely had time to smoke and shower before blowing me a kiss as she hurried through the door.

 

That evening, Julio drove us through the rurals to Punta Prima. The sun set behind us, illuminating the dry grasses in the fields and setting the orange ground off in an explosion of lively, earthy tones. The warm air whipped in through the windows, bringing with it the scent of salt. The small farm houses outside of San Lluis shone brilliant white in the fading dusk, their blue doors in shadow sealing away cool kitchens and their homely smells.

On the promenade in Punta Prima, throngs of British tourists sat in restaurants, open to the street, languishing after a day under the hot sun. Their bellies spilled out beneath their vests and showed through ill-fitting white dresses.

We shared a cigarette, looking out into the surf before walking to the restaurant we’d dined at on our first night on the island. In the cool breeze we enjoyed a meal of fresh fish and coffee, sating us both and leaving us with a careless ease.

The tourists still wandered the streets, perusing the various vendors’ stalls, selling off their cheap bead necklaces and badly made leather bags.

 

By the time we hit the street ourselves, the crowds had fallen away to bars and clubhouses to drink their cheap lager and forget about their sunburn.

For a while, Julio and I passed a football around on a small pitch at the edge of the car park until the heat became too oppressive and our shirts clung to our backs’.

 

Ramona was still at work when we arrived at the flat, leaving us to bounce Captain Beefheart off the walls through our cigarette smoke. I knew it would be detrimental to my mental state but regardless, I hoped she would return home that night. For whatever reason, it would set me at ease, alone in my single bed.

 

*

 

I lay awake all night; restless torment. I had to leave this place as soon as possible. I listened to Ramona put her key in the door, light a cigarette and play with The Black Cat. The smoke drifted through the flat to my nostrils and I wished only to taste the nicotine on her lips. As she passed my door to her room I cried out silently for her to whisper my name. I was steadily going mad. I listened to her undress and climb into her bed through the two open doors, and soon she fell asleep.

Until 6am I lay on my back, twice getting up to smoke a cigarette on the balcony and numerous times taking a shock when Julio would cry out in his sleep, suffering night terrors of his own.

 

I climbed from my bed and left the flat soon after 6am. The sun had begun to rise and had lit up the violet, blue skies. The dense cloud cover, left over from the moon’s reign kept the streets in shadow as I made my way through the empty town. The only sound made by flocks of birds singing their morning chorus from the trees dominating the square.

I walked down to the terrace overlooking the port. A single wooden chair, mirror and chest of drawers had been left in one corner of the terrace, looking somehow fitting and not out of place against the light stone wall. I took up the chair overlooking the port and watched the sun come up. The water lay still and silent as a young woman in a blue dress posted two books through the library door behind me.

Slowly, along with the skies, the streets came to life for the day. Vendors set up the steel frames for their stalls down on the promenade and a coffee machine clicked into life somewhere nearby.

 

Once the sun had shown his warm, dawn face I left my seat and made my way to another high terrace behind the fish market. There, on a small table, I sat with a coffee overlooking the quickly awakening town.

An old man in a pink and yellow striped shirt stood with his arms on the black railings, breathing in the morning air. A large red and white passenger ferry made its way into the port and dropped anchor at the maritime centre. Only the sound of the steam wand inside the café could be heard over the rattling of chains far below, as a steady stream of European cars emanated from the ferry’s hull.

 

When the tables around me began to fill up I made my way to the fruit market and bought an apricot and a peach. I walked down some unfamiliar streets and found a bench under a pine tree, high above the port. As I sat and ate my fruit in the sun, I steadily began to feel the fatigue setting in. My head felt light, forcing me to retreat to the cool shadowed streets. I bought a croissant from a small bakery and walked along the water and up a steep slope to a vantage point tucked high behind the Convent De Ses Monges Tancades. There I stood in the hot sunlight eating the rest of my breakfast before making my way back to the flat.

The streets and squares had become busier, mainly populated by elderly men, street cleaners and school children. I stepped unsteadily, drawing glances from the old men, conversing in the shade of their fedoras.

 

At the flat, everyone was still sleeping. I read my book by the balcony door for two hours while Julio and Ramona awoke and ate breakfast. I felt resentment towards Ramona, either for plaguing my mind throughout the night, or for not reciprocating my own desires. Either way, I hadn’t slept and was in a foul mood.

As she left for work I watched from my seat as she climbed into her car, made a cigarette and drove away. I then fell asleep on the sofa.

At 1pm Julio woke me to say he was taking the car out. Despite having only an hour’s sleep, I showered, ate and dressed, then made my way to the café where I’d sat that morning. I sat in an odd, frozen stupor, almost paralysed by the copious coffee and cigarettes and lack of sleep. I remember nothing noteworthy of that two or so hours, except drinking five strong coffees and sweat profusely in the afternoon sun. A testament to my frazzled brain.

 

I arrived back at the flat at around 4pm, stripped off my sweat drenched clothes, showered and cleaned the house of its usual chaos. Julio arrived around 5pm, and for a long while we talked over cigarettes, consoling one another over our respective calamitous heads. Julio had been the only soothing antidote for my tortured head since I’d arrived on the island and he was, and still is an irreplaceable brother.

Ramona put her key in the door at 7pm, completely ruined from her endless hours at work and complete lack of time to recuperate.

She sat in the same seat complaining of a bad back and migraine until we left her to her own space for a few hours.

 

Julio and I drove out to a seafood restaurant on a cliff-top near Cala Mesquida. Our table overlooked the deep blue seas, stretching out towards Sardinia and Italy. The high winds whipped up the surface of the water forming white caps as far as the eye could see. For a while we sat and ate grilled squid and swordfish, looking out to the waves; drinking coffee and wine.

We arranged to meet Ramona outside the flat at 11.15pm, to head out to Cala En Porter, to an exclusive club set deep into a cliff-face cave, called Cova D’en Xoroi. Ramona had got the three of us onto the guest list and we were waved down the long steep steps despite disapproving glares from the doorman at my and Julio’s attire.

Hundreds of terracotta steps lit by red and white LED’s led us down and around the cliff-face to a small terrace overlooking the moonlit sea.

More steps led deep inside a system of caves, open to the air and all elaborately decorated and kitted out into a high end club. The whole charade was more than impressive, but the three of us felt much more comfortable up on the terrace, lit by the moon; a bone scythe hung up somewhere in the distance. I sipped on a €10 gin and tonic, feeling more at ease with Ramona then I had done since I arrived. In the cool white light I knew that my ordeal was nearly over. I watched her profile as she looked out to sea, contemplating her own decisions and problems. My time as a part of her life was drawing to a close. I focussed on the dark silhouette of her rear view mirror as we followed her back to Mahon later that night. I imagined her dark eyes searching for mine somewhere in the glare of our headlights.

 

As soon as we arrived at the flat, Ramona bid us goodnight. I heard her bedroom door click shut when I put Harry Belafonte on the small stereo.

The Black Cat mewed at her door for the comfort of her bed, and when he returned to my side I assured him he wasn’t alone in his pain.

I switched out the living room lamp, leaving Julio asleep on the sofa, and walked the long, dark hall for the last time, to lie in my torturous resting place.

*

 

I awoke late the next day, just before noon. I’d needed the rest. Ramona had already left for work. I was glad to be able to pace the cold floor tiles without the threat of any kind of morning headfuck.

Julio and I ate eggs and soon made our way out to the small beach at Binisafuller.

Under the unforgiving sun we lay and talked, smoking cigarettes and taking note of our last day on the island. At one point a young Catalan woman approached us and asked if she could interview us regarding a new beach clean-up scheme. We agreed, only for the woman to run off down the beach and reappear two minutes later with a cameraman in a Creature shirt. Julio and I hadn’t counted on featuring on a Balearic Island television programme, but saw no harm and had been taken by surprise.

 

We left the coast at 6pm and returned to the flat to wash and pack. The time passed slowly and I began to feel anxious and shaky.

Ramona returned from work at 7.30pm and the three of us sat around, talking and smoking. When 8pm finally rolled around, Julio bid his farewells to Ramona and The Black Cat, leaving me alone with her. She pushed the door shut and turned to face me. My heart beat through my thin shirt and my mouth dried out as I began to talk. We both knew that we’d probably never see one another again.

I wished her a happy life, kissed her cheek and walked out of the flat. It was over in a moment.

I investigated my eyes in the lift mirror and blinked away the red lines and strange haze.

 

The street was hot and the air was dry with little wind. A small chihuahua yapped from a first floor balcony above our heads. I spat on the pavement as I climbed into the car.

I spoke little as Julio drove us to the petrol station to fill up the tank.

We paid €50 at the pump but were somehow struck, yet again with our familiar bad luck. The pump would not stay engaged and it was twenty minutes before we were careering along the wide open road to the airport. By the time we left the car and ran to the terminal, we both knew we had missed our flight.

Three women seated at a desk behind thick glass informed us that we had indeed missed our flight by ten minutes and wouldn’t be able to return to the U.K. until 12.30pm the following day.

 

I felt sick and trapped. The airport closed at 1am and I had no intention of calling Ramona for help.

For three hours we sat on a bench outside the terminal. Julio played his ukulele for spare change while I chain-smoked endless cigarettes, staring out at the purple evening sky over Mahon.

It was eventually decided that our best bet was to make our way back into town and spend the night on a bench by the port. I packed a bottle of wine into my rucksack before stuffing our duffel bag into a thick hedge in a dark corner of the car park.

We walked along the lamp lit road leading out of the airport and managed to hitch a ride back to town with a young Spanish couple on their way back to San Lluis. They dropped us outside Ramona’s flat and we quickly made our way back down to the main square where the birds had deafened me a few mornings before.

There we sat; inhaling falafel kebabs, half laughing, half mourning our situation. A little while later we found ourselves on the terrace at Mirador with a beer each and a dish of olives. It was a strange feeling to know that we shouldn’t have been in those seats, drinking those beers, breathing that air. We felt like stowaways on the soft Spanish night, drinking in what we had already said goodbye to.

It was then that I received a message from Ramona asking if we’d arrived safely in Bristol. I toyed with the idea of ignoring the message until I could truthfully reply with the answer she expected but I knew Julio was silently urging me to find us a bed over a bench and a bottle of wine. I explained the predicament to her and she immediately told us to head up the hill to her flat. I felt stupid and foolish as I walked up through the avenues, Julio picking away at his ukulele a few yards behind me.

It’s one thing to say goodbye forever to a woman you’ve loved, but to return the very same day, stranded and homeless, only to utter the same words the next morning leaves you with a bitter taste under your dry tongue.

 

She buzzed us into the flat and proceeded to laugh at us for an hour. She sat on the kitchen worktop eating tapas while we propped ourselves either side of her listening to her chuckle. She wore a blue skirt and a white top, accentuating her dark skin under the dim kitchen lights. I stood in front of her as she talked and caught torturing flashes of her pink underwear as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

I soon left to sleep and shut off my wired head, followed shortly by the others.

I’d wanted nothing more than to escape this damned rock for the last five days and had pissed away the only chance I’d had, finding myself back in the single bed, with her beautiful brown body, lying naked next door.

 

*

 

Ramona drove us to the airport the next morning. I saved her from my hearty bullshit and kissed her on both cheeks, giving her a smile and a wink before closing the boot of her car before turning my back on her forever.

 

As our small white and orange plane soared up towards the clouds, I followed the familiar roads towards the town and picked out Ramona’s building. I imagined blowing her a kiss through the balcony doors as we entered the grey clouds over Mahon.

 

***

 

My old train clacked and rumbled along the rails past Dawlish, Teignmouth and Plymouth before finally turning west back into Cornwall.

The woods and fields looked healthier since I’d last passed though. The yellows and browns had been replaced by verdant, deep greens and the vibrant purples of foxglove groves.

Some things remain healthy, full of life and colour, where others recede and die back, unable to sustain themselves. Wherever there is death and decay, loss and hurt, slowly, with time the remains will recede and pave the way for new life, sticking it’s ugly head up to breathe.

No one will remember how the woods and thickets looked before the summer took hold; before the poisonous foxgloves reared their pretty heads, and when they themselves die back under the October rains, we will forget they ever existed and embrace whatever should grow in their place.