The magical likes of Dynamo can cleverly construct an elaborate illusion that can astound. Make you think this is happening, when in fact, it’s that. And that’s the trick. Even more astounding when the trick is performed really close up. Your phone ends up inside a beer bottle. Then, the art of misdirection becomes paramount. Almost genius-like.
With co-ordinates carefully input, today’s trip is analysed and dissected. Considered flawless. Destination, Praia a Mare. Another beachside stop. Inland sites few and far between down here. A short 235K paddle north. I’ll be back in that mare, well before sunset.
Under normal circumstances, being aware of the sun’s position can be used as a good indicator of which direction you’re moving. We’re in the northern hemisphere, so it’s always somewhere south. Then it’s simply a question of knowing your left from your right. East from your west. Impossible to get it wrong really. It’s a bit more tricky in Italy. With more twists and turns than the average murder mystery ten-parter, it becomes second nature to become discombobulated. Put your faith totally in Missy – our Ozzie navigator with an attitude.
The phrase “This can’t be right, can it?” Echoes from the captain’s chair (as Mrs S prefers to call it), “we’re heading south west!” Missy is skulking around in solid state ether, pretending she hasn’t heard. When GPS signal gets lost her default is to pick and aim for some distant point. Re-co-ordinate. Perfect her skills of misdirection. The two stooges (AKA Cheeses) get suckered – again. Today’s journey has just become 285K! Argh!!
On site, it’s time to give Mrs S a break from cooking. A rave review gives Praia a Mare’s restaurant a must visit. We do just that. It’s large. Maybe 80 covers. We’re first to arrive. It’s a little after 7pm. After feeling ignored for over ten minutes and starting to feel a little tetchy about that, our waiter decides to spring into action.
His gait is most extraordinary. We mustn’t laugh. But it’s difficult not to. (Obviously not to his face.) With chest puffed out like a Red Robin and both arms bent and angled back, he slowly glides towards our table, Christopher Dean-like. As if he’s re-running that Olympic gold winning performance of Bolero. All that’s missing is Jane being dragged across the restaurant floor behind him. At any moment he’s going to send her spinning. Once table side he morphs into Basil Faulty. It appears Polly has given him some bad news that he needs to impart. He doesn’t quite know how to tell us. (because he’s Italian and we’re English).
“Zee cook iz . . . “ – his head lollops to one side, eyes roll upwards dramatically and one hand motions a throat slitting action. Quite what significance this information holds is unclear. Either zee cook is dead, having a nap, or has succumbed to food poisoning. In any event, he indicates the show must go on and we ask to see the menu. “There-a isn’t one” he says. Taps his temple knowingly, as if it’s the side of his nose. “Its all-a in here”. We go with his suggestions!
