I think we can put that down as a “wasted day”

We had somehow not managed to be invited to the last night’s proceedings which were an end-of-festival meal in an inland restaurant which was I think mainly for the bands but the oversight was nevertheless a little galling. Steve wasn’t that bothered about going anyway so we opted to drive to a little restaurant on the way to BUGGER YOU! That we had seen.  I drank a litre of Acqua con gas and managed to order pasta with prawns and a prawn salad. It was all a bit prawny.

Not feeling particularly well (No surprise, judging by the healthy living I had enjoyed over the last week and the rather prawn-centric meal I had just consumed) I just gave up the ghost and went back to bed again, well before midnight. Steve followed shortly and we both had a restless night in which I woke myself up repeatedly with nightmares about Sardinian child spirits who kept walking into my room, surrounding my bed and staring at me. At one point I actually woke myself up and started shouting at them to go away (I could still see them) before closing my eyes again when they magicked themselves into my mates and hung around a house I have never lived in. I persuaded myself to take control of the dream, ripped a hole in the debacle and walked through it into a very enjoyable performance of “Chicago” that I saw in London a year or two ago. I have successfully lucid-dreamt before when the nightmares have got a bit much but I’ve never had to resort to show tunes. Clearly the German invasions were beginning to have an effect. I thanked the sweet Jesus (As opposed to the Acid Baby one) that the neighbours had all left because I couldn’t handle a Gerry Hat Trick although it was a bit of a shame that I had slept through their departures as in the main everyone at the festival has been a blast and I suspect I’ve made half a dozen new lasting friendships (All with men of course, with varying degrees of facial hair).

(One of the people in the photograph above got in my bed in the early hours of the morning the other day and spooned me for three hours - but which one?)

Steve was up early (of course) and as I heard him tidying up the kitchen I thought it best to stay in bed until the tidying noises stopped before I roused myself, marvelling at what a wonderful job he had done at again leaving me with nothing to do. We packed, he fed a left-over steak to a stray dog and we headed off hours ahead of schedule and back over the mountain to Iglesias. The scenery was really terrific (it was the first time we had seen it in the light) but we couldn’t stop to really take it in as a. There was nowhere to stop and b. little opportunity anyway as we were (in no particular order) stuck between three-wheeler mini vans, coaches, lorries and a couple riding a motorbike at about fifteen miles an hour. Steve did an honourable job of not grumbling at all and driving with the skill and clarity of The Stig, much to my relief. Then we got to Iglesias and he parked like a girl. I magnanimously let it go. I’m good like that.

We sat in a bar for a bit but no-one came to offer us anything so we walked out again. This happens quite a lot in Sardinia. Then we walked around the (pleasant enough) square and settled in a restaurant that offered a two-course “dish of the day” with coffee for eleven euros – a rare bargain in what I have to say is a fairly pricey island if you don’t like pizza. Steve was a little pre-occupied with a missing beer order he would have to sort out when he got back (His phone had rung off the hook about it) and I was also a little pre-occupied with not being able to get in the Gents toilet. I was eventually persuaded (by both my companion and necessity) to use the ladies. What a voyage of discovery that was! The main gist of the signs on the wall seemed to be "Don't put something or other in the toilet - use the bin provided". It seemed an unusual way to poo but who am I to break with tradition*

Half an hour on the dual carriageway to the airport and it was time to fill the tank up with diesel so as not to get a surcharge on the hire car. It was like watching Laurel & Hardy fill up. After looking bemused at the pump and pressing various buttons for a couple of minutes, a man came over to help us just as Steve was pointing the nozzle at ME rather than the car. We eventually twigged it, the man walked away, I went in to the shop to pay, the shop was a cafe and the waitress laughed and sent me outside again, Steve had already moved the car and I couldn't find him, then I saw the man again, gave him the 15 euros for the diesel we had put in, he (for some reason) gave me two euros change. and we dropped the car back at the rental place around 4pm, fully expecting to be able to drop the bags off and relax. 

No chance. 

The flight check in didn’t open until 6.50pm and by the time it did we had given up walking up to it to see if it was open and ended up at the back of the queue. Only truly experienced travellers like ourselves could manage to show up three hours early and still manage to be the last on the plane, which we had a cup of tea on. This simple pleasure one of many highlights of what had been an amazing, life-affirming week of booze, bands and the entirely curious world of European Garage Punk culture. I still managed to never talk to the curious Swiss though. Oh you magnificently curious Swiss!

*I'm joking about that - I've been in Ladies Toilets loads of times.