postcard from gozo

It's hot here. Hot and dry and dusty and far more arid here
than I thought possible. The island is mostly yellow and beige
and brown, low against a blue sky. If you imagined a mix of
Italian, english and arabic, gozo is what you'd get. Stone buildings
with few exterior windows round inner coutyards, villages with central
squares, churches with mosque like round tops, siestas and red
telephone boxes.

We are staying in an old farm house, high on the cliff, at the
far west of the island. The sun sits on the walled terrace with pool
all day, at the end of the day filling the vaulted interior with warm
amber light. Walk outside onto the dusty road and you are immediately in farm
land, peaceful yet sinister. On the first day we discovered a fire which had sprung
up in the stubbled fields and was burning the cliffside and hay bales. We called the
fire brigade and stood there watching the flames raging amongst debris which, to my over-imaginative
mind suggested far sinister a scenario: helmet, car/plane seat and a trainer, all within 20 metres
of each other. The wind shrieking past does nothing to dispell the thought.

Life settles quickly into a pattern, as it does anywhere. Sleeping,eating, swimming, painting and long leisurely evening meals
with plenty of wine and conversation well into the early hours. Occasionally we leave the immediate vicinity of the village for
food, or to walk, or go to the beach. Last night we sat on a roof top for supper
and then in a square with a lit up church, tables and beer and watched the football. Tonight we will go dancing
at a club which today's guardian tells us is so good that it is reminiscent of ibiza's
glory days. It matters not to me, I just want to dance all night in an open air nightclub on the beach/caves.

To be continued...