absorbing pints of water; the waitress kept an eye on our glasses and topped them up repeatedly – for free, though in tiendas bottled water costs CP0.85 per litre. Our bill came to NP44, much less than two euros.
Back on the beach my bloated companions were only fit for rummy and, anyway, the heat dictated passivity until 3.00-ish.
Our plan to follow the sandy shoreline was soon thwarted by mangroves. A path led up to the treeless and heat-reflecting road; as we plodded along I felt like an egg in a frying-pan and Clodagh complained about the sea’s being invisible. ‘With luck,’ said Rachel, ‘we’ll soon get back to it.’
Where the terrain began to slope slightly up I fell behind to consult our map. Alarmingly, it showed the road swinging inland for several shadeless miles. Catching up with the others I remarked brightly, ‘At least there’s no traffic.’
Zea scowled, transcended her anti-motor conditioning and said, ‘I’d like traffic! We might get a lift. I’m too hot !’ Her sisters looked as though they rather agreed with her but made no comment, having a clearer concept of the purpose of this holiday.
Then came a long, high bridge spanning a river-bed some seventy yards wide. The drought had reduced this river (nameless on our map) to separate streams winding erratically between boulders and patches of scrub. Rachel paused, studied the cliff path leading down from the road and said, ‘Rivers lead to seas – let’s follow it.’
‘ Yes !’ yelled the Trio in unison. At once they bounded down an almost perpendicular path like so many goats. Their mother, overloaded with bottled water, proceeded more cautiously. Their grandmother, overloaded with beer, and mindful of the friability of septuagenarian bones, sought a stout stick before descending. At the base of the cliff five little boys, building a mud fort, stared at us in silent astonishment. Then a horseman appeared from under the bridge, riding bareback, wearing only shorts and a sombrero, trying to lassoe herons. He ignored us.
Released from that hellish road, our spirits soared. The main stream glowed through deep pools between high boulders. ‘This is fun !’ shouted Rose, leaping from boulder to boulder. Clodagh and Zea each went their own way, Clodagh slipping often on slimy green stones in swift shallow water, Zea pausing, as is her wont, to examine various mosses and tiny rock plants. (Her paternal grandmother is a botanist.) The burdened adults sought the easiest way forward between streams – not all that easy, balancing on large loose stones. Where the streams converged the current strengthened and Zea tended to wobble while fording. So did I, despite my stick, and Zea, noticing this, waited for me and said, ‘I’m not very stable but I’ll try to help you.’ The sort of remark that sticks in a grand-maternal memory.
Hereabouts the challenges multiplied. Around a sharpish bend the river-bed abruptly narrowed to thirty yards or less and the water’s power and depth forced us into a thorny mangrove swamp. Undaunted, the Trio squelched ahead and were small enough to dodge the thorns that lacerated their elders. On half-slipping into the swamp I yelped for Rachel to rescue the Trio’s supper – those precious ship’s biscuits in my cloth shoulder-bag.
Soon, in the distance we could hear a rhythmical rattling roar. ‘That can’t be the sea!’ exclaimed Rachel. A few hours previously, in Chivirico’s sheltered bay, wavelets had been gently hissing on to the sand. But since then a strong wind had arisen and along this exposed flat coast the Atlantic was turbulent. Emerging from the bushes we caught up with the Trio and stood in awe of towering white breakers crashing on to a natural causeway of big stones and small boulders.
It took us some moments to realise we were in a trap of sorts. Contradicting Rachel’s reasonable assumption that rivers flow into seas, this depleted river here became a murky lagoon, some eighty
Back on the beach my bloated companions were only fit for rummy and, anyway, the heat dictated passivity until 3.00-ish.
Our plan to follow the sandy shoreline was soon thwarted by mangroves. A path led up to the treeless and heat-reflecting road; as we plodded along I felt like an egg in a frying-pan and Clodagh complained about the sea’s being invisible. ‘With luck,’ said Rachel, ‘we’ll soon get back to it.’
Where the terrain began to slope slightly up I fell behind to consult our map. Alarmingly, it showed the road swinging inland for several shadeless miles. Catching up with the others I remarked brightly, ‘At least there’s no traffic.’
Zea scowled, transcended her anti-motor conditioning and said, ‘I’d like traffic! We might get a lift. I’m too hot !’ Her sisters looked as though they rather agreed with her but made no comment, having a clearer concept of the purpose of this holiday.
Then came a long, high bridge spanning a river-bed some seventy yards wide. The drought had reduced this river (nameless on our map) to separate streams winding erratically between boulders and patches of scrub. Rachel paused, studied the cliff path leading down from the road and said, ‘Rivers lead to seas – let’s follow it.’
‘ Yes !’ yelled the Trio in unison. At once they bounded down an almost perpendicular path like so many goats. Their mother, overloaded with bottled water, proceeded more cautiously. Their grandmother, overloaded with beer, and mindful of the friability of septuagenarian bones, sought a stout stick before descending. At the base of the cliff five little boys, building a mud fort, stared at us in silent astonishment. Then a horseman appeared from under the bridge, riding bareback, wearing only shorts and a sombrero, trying to lassoe herons. He ignored us.
Released from that hellish road, our spirits soared. The main stream glowed through deep pools between high boulders. ‘This is fun !’ shouted Rose, leaping from boulder to boulder. Clodagh and Zea each went their own way, Clodagh slipping often on slimy green stones in swift shallow water, Zea pausing, as is her wont, to examine various mosses and tiny rock plants. (Her paternal grandmother is a botanist.) The burdened adults sought the easiest way forward between streams – not all that easy, balancing on large loose stones. Where the streams converged the current strengthened and Zea tended to wobble while fording. So did I, despite my stick, and Zea, noticing this, waited for me and said, ‘I’m not very stable but I’ll try to help you.’ The sort of remark that sticks in a grand-maternal memory.
Hereabouts the challenges multiplied. Around a sharpish bend the river-bed abruptly narrowed to thirty yards or less and the water’s power and depth forced us into a thorny mangrove swamp. Undaunted, the Trio squelched ahead and were small enough to dodge the thorns that lacerated their elders. On half-slipping into the swamp I yelped for Rachel to rescue the Trio’s supper – those precious ship’s biscuits in my cloth shoulder-bag.
Soon, in the distance we could hear a rhythmical rattling roar. ‘That can’t be the sea!’ exclaimed Rachel. A few hours previously, in Chivirico’s sheltered bay, wavelets had been gently hissing on to the sand. But since then a strong wind had arisen and along this exposed flat coast the Atlantic was turbulent. Emerging from the bushes we caught up with the Trio and stood in awe of towering white breakers crashing on to a natural causeway of big stones and small boulders.
It took us some moments to realise we were in a trap of sorts. Contradicting Rachel’s reasonable assumption that rivers flow into seas, this depleted river here became a murky lagoon, some eighty
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