Ibiza nightmare

My bad dreams usually follow a pattern. Either I'm falling or I'm lost and desperately find something in some vaguely familiar place. It's not very profound, but always me feeling slightly disturbed when I wake up. They're certainly not what I'd call nightmares.

Yesterday I felt I was living through a combination of bad dreams. In fact. if I didn't have the cuts and bruises to show for it I'd think Saturday May 3 was a figment of my sleeping imagination.

It started normally. As ever I was a little late getting on with my plans, exciting stuff such as heading to the post office to pick up my mail, buying a new paint roller and food for the weekend. That meant heading into the town of Jesus and back via Sta Eulalia. I could have gone another way, but for various totally uninteresting reasons I didn't. I wish I had.

At this point I should say I came off my scooter a couple of weeks ago. It was stupid. I wasn't concentrating. It was a sort of wake-up call given that I'd had the little 125 for almost two years without the slightest bump. The accident had shaken me a little and the bike was no longer pristine. It left me shaken enough not to ride for a few days.

So I was slightly nervous when I started riding along the windy main road from Jesus to Sta Eulalia. It's filled with sharp curves, deep drops and a slightly unsettling camber in places. Actually it can be a pleasure to ride for those very reasons. But yesterday I felt stiff, not leaning into the curves properly. I braked badly on at one bend, then, well there's a blank spot in my memory.

I remember seeing a white van too close behind me in the mirror. Blank. Suddenly I was off the edge into a sheer drop. Another blank. Then I stood up, surprised that nothing hurt too seriously. I waved a thumbs up to the van driver who then headed off. Fortunately another couple of drivers stopped. I might only have had bumps, scratches and bruises, but hauling even a small motorbike up a slope is not easy. Three of us struggled on the steep, crumbling slope.

One of the guys was wearing a "Britsat" tee-shirt. I guessed - correctly - he was Chris. I'd spoken to him at Christmas when my Sky system packed up. In the end I was able to fix it myself. After yesterday let me heartily recommend his service. Next time...

Fortunately the damage to the scooter was only superficial, although I can't say I'm looking forward to gluing the cracked and split fairing together. So I rode home. Very slowly. Then I sat down and every muscle in my arms and lower back seemed to seize up and complain painfully. I'm still bloody sore.

That wasn't the end of the waking bad dream. In the evening, having as you'll remember missed out on the food shopping, Barbara and I decided to go for a cheap Chinese meal in Figueretas. I drove. Two minutes after leaving the house we see several cars scattered randomly around what we know is a dangerous junction. A guy is lying lifeless under his scooter next to a large rubbish bin. He looks in a bad way. It's almost a relief to hear him moaning. People are talking into mobile phones including the guy who seems to have hit the scooter. He's speaking French. The wing of his black Suzuki jeep is badly damaged.


Deciding there's little we can achieve by gawking we drive on. Slowly. At the "McDonalds roundabout" close to Figueretas we pull over to let an ambulance past. A minute or two later we've arrived at the scene of another accident. All I can see is the end of a woman's legs. The rest of her body is obscured by a police car. She's wearing blue flip-flops. I really don't want to see any more.


Now the evening descends more into farce than nightmare. I drop Barbara off near the restaurant and go to look for a parking space. It's never easy in Figueretas. I spot something on the other side of the road. It's tight, but every space is. I totally screw up the manoeuvre. It doesn't help that this is taking place outside a cafe and a stern-faced woman keeps looking at me and shaking her head as I struggle. I can't even use the bumpers as nature intended as there's a shinynew scooter parked in front. After two minutes of lock-to-lock my back wheel is a couple of inches up on the low curb and I can't straighten up.

In this situation my motto is: "If at first you don't succeed, give up." Trouble is I'm stuck. More struggling and I get out without hitting anything. Eventually I find a spot in the car park at the end of the road. I know Barbara will be getting fed up waiting. But I don't want to suffer the stare of the po-faced woman at the cafe. So I decide to walk back along the seafront away from the road.

I head down a ramp. It peters out into a dead end. But it's easy to step over the low wall of a hotel and what seems to be the beginning of the promenade. Unfortunately, there's no way out except through the hotel. So I decide to go that way. The problem is the hotel is built on the side of a cliff so the entrance is not on the ground floor. And I can't find a sign or even a person to ask the way to reception. I'm walking ever faster through faceless corridors and up blank staircases. Nothing. Sensors set off lights to brighten the gloom and add to my feeling that at some point I'm going to be arrested or something. My phone rings and it's Barbara wondering where I am.

Eventually I give up and retrace my steps. Hobbling as fast as I can along the road I note somebody's neatly claimed the space where I'd failed to park. Sore and sweating I make it to the restaurant.

The meal was okay and we pop into Uno y Dos for a non-alcoholic drink and to chat with Mitch. The drive back was happily uneventful. I can't say I slept well thanks to my various aches and pains. But my sleep was without dreams.

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