After our day of sunshine on Wednesday, yesterday was bleak and dull again. We decided that we’d ‘do the shops’ in the New Town (our apartment is in the Old Quarter) so off we trotted on what turned out to be a 5 mile hike up and down all of the tiny backstreets. This is the thing about foreign holidays that I like – the poky little alleyways with curious little shops selling curious little things. We found a shop selling nothing but candles and sponges. What kind of peculiar combo is that?
We stopped for lunch, having had a debate about whether to do ‘small lunch, big dinner’ or ‘big lunch, small dinner’. The restaurant had three courses plus wine and bread for €12.50 a head and so we decided ‘big lunch, small dinner’ was the order of the day. Oh, my, actual, God. I ordered Macaroni Bolognese for my starter and a plate of pasta that would have fed a small African country for a fortnight arrived. I’d ordered Pizza San Marco for the main course and naively expected a largish slice of pizza to appear. My mistake. They wheeled out a pizza that could have doubled as a satellite dish. Meanwhile my friend was swimming through an endless sea of chicken in green pepper sauce with rice, and swilling it down with a litre of house white. I ended my meal with lemon sorbet. She ended hers with a burp and a rueful shake of the head.
We rolled home from the restaurant swearing never to eat again.
By 8.30pm we were putting ourselves outside of burger, chips and onion rings in the local taverna.
Well, we’re on holiday, right?