Paradise No.2. Its too good to wait.
I can only imagine this kind of feeling is that which magic mushrooms and happy pizzas were established to induce their customers with. Its a high I am proud to have achieved without herbal influences and alternative veg and one I am determined to maintain for the rest of this whirlwind adventure.
It must be the combination of the soothing sounds of the tranquil waves gently folding over the scorched rocks and sands or perhaps it is the brimming fruit platter which I have just consumed? Or most likely the sheer beauty of the derilict beach inhabited by the two of us for the day, free from any other human activity, apart from the occassionally balding romantic french couple to keep us company. Sweet.
Now, I must tell you of something which caused me great concern this very morning. I think it is probably worth starting by describing the shrill, soprano screech I heard interrupting my gripping read. After shrugging it off as a rude galavanting tourist I quickly realised, It accompanied an obviously very distressed and dishevelled Pea, who was emerging in a most petrifying pace from the sea.
I had to think quickly on my feet.
I debated what on earth could have led to such drama. A gnashing brutal snapper of a fish perhaps. Do I run out clumsily like a baywatch lifeguard and save her? Fat chance. Instead I learnt as she puffed and collapsed on the sunbed that it had been the most peculiar chubby elongated worm-ish creature which persisted on sucking on my companions poor thighs as she bathed blissfully in the water. My little pea was exhausted and it took her a while to come around. Poor wee thing.
Obviously, I was overcome with relief that she emerged in one fine piece. The thought of completing this wild expedition without her infectious smile and unceasing banter constantly by my side is just too too awful to conceive of.
I must end this brief blogging by the latest triumph. The manager who unkindly interrupted my most delicious fruit salad at lunch, invited the two of us on a day tip tomorrow. Can you believe his kindness. Not just a quick whizz round the island but a magical seaside trip fulled with bbq seafood too. Not to mention the persuasive factor of delicious wines to drink at sunset and two charming men from the hotel to escort us. Mid mouthful I risked choking on my mango in fear he may withdraw this fine offer and accepted. I mean...is the pope Catholic?
I cannot wait to report back. For now, so long ......alfedersain(??!).
A high spirited buglet. x
p.s sorry if this is painfully dull and ive overloaded you with useless information. I will have to wait an extra while before the next one so as not to lose any one of you dear followers. Thank you so much for reading uptil now..I LOVE YOU TO PIECES. yes you!
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Paradise.
Its hard really to know where to start.
Pea and myself are currently at Mango bay on a stunning island called Phu Quoc. It seems to be a hidden secret to all goggling tourists and thank the heavens for that. As a result there are no tatooed, slimy english football shirt wearing youths and only the sweetest of honeymooning couples. These have been immensely appreciated by Pea and I as we have had the delights of nosying in on endless men and women inebriated by their undying love for one another. As the lonely planet quite rightly described, it is a romantic getaway. For there are endless amounts of adoring lovers dotted along the beaches and whispering sweet nothings into eachothers ears at sunset.
On arrival, the manager thankfully even told us that he had moved us from a double bed to two singles as in his words "we were not a couple". This was obviously a blessing, as he saved us having to awkwardly pipe up that we werent infact members of a civil partnership.
It is magic in every sense of the word and I am tempted to reserve a suite for my own honeymoon as it seems to suit the occasion too perfectly. Pea and I have of course, delved in the idea of coming back in years to come with two dashing young men on our arms, but we have both assured one another the chances are slim. The challenge for any man to choose us over all other ladies to spend the rest of their lives with seems to be a feat too big to ask any poor gentleman. So we have concluded a single ladies trip at the age of 40 will have to be a solution to our lonely depression instead.
But it is not our single days which our preoccupying our minds, but the breathtaking beauty of the resort we are staying in. The sea is a turquoise so divine and calm it seems too precious to swim in and the sand is white and silky smooth under our feet. Our bungalow is to die for, and we have never in our lives been more appreciative or gushing about our situation. We cant help asking ourselves why we deserve to spend four nights free of charge in absolute paradise, with a gourmet breakfast included and cocktails and seafood to make your mouth water with the succulence and aromas. I cant seem to even erase the guilt I have at the back of my mind that each and everyone of you is not lying on a beach bed surrendering to the sun by my side.
The tan I must admit is coming on. I can safely say my london doctor can be fired on the terms he warned me I might turn a yellow-ish colour or fully be sunproof as a result of my malaria tablets, as I am gradually (being the key word) adopting a st tropez tan.
Not only has this given me some inner confidence that I am no longer the stumpy hobbit I described in earlier atrocious photographs. But my bikinis even fit. Not just one but ALL four snazzy, flamboyant bikinis are holding up. I say this in utter disbelief, as my sheer determination to be the Delia festive goddess over the Christmas period meant my skinny jeans werent quite as slimlined as they were meant to be by New Year. Papa is 99% to blame for hiring me to take on Heston Blumentals potatoes and endless varities of chestnut and cranberry stuffings as perfecting these lead to excessive tastings and subsequent weight gain. But boy were they worth it.
Anyway, enough about my waistline and more about our paradise. It is currently 4.30 in the afternoon and I am about to scurry back over to my little pea currently lying in a hammock recovering from the intense bathing we endured this morning. In a few hours we may even treat ourselves to a smoothie before dining with a crisp glass of wine infront of the sunset.
I stress, there is no need to feel jealous.
Anna Craven Smith Milne who has made this all happen needs to be made a Saint and we are both indebted to her for her kindness in trusting us backpacking youths to stay in her heavenly resort. She is an utter goddess.
We love you all to pieces and you are on our minds every minute of the day. I am the happiest bean alive.
Love you all to eternity and earlier this morning I wrote an adoring message in the sand with my little toes to prove it.
Big tight suffocating squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze of a hug,
Your Buglet
x x x
Pea and myself are currently at Mango bay on a stunning island called Phu Quoc. It seems to be a hidden secret to all goggling tourists and thank the heavens for that. As a result there are no tatooed, slimy english football shirt wearing youths and only the sweetest of honeymooning couples. These have been immensely appreciated by Pea and I as we have had the delights of nosying in on endless men and women inebriated by their undying love for one another. As the lonely planet quite rightly described, it is a romantic getaway. For there are endless amounts of adoring lovers dotted along the beaches and whispering sweet nothings into eachothers ears at sunset.
On arrival, the manager thankfully even told us that he had moved us from a double bed to two singles as in his words "we were not a couple". This was obviously a blessing, as he saved us having to awkwardly pipe up that we werent infact members of a civil partnership.
It is magic in every sense of the word and I am tempted to reserve a suite for my own honeymoon as it seems to suit the occasion too perfectly. Pea and I have of course, delved in the idea of coming back in years to come with two dashing young men on our arms, but we have both assured one another the chances are slim. The challenge for any man to choose us over all other ladies to spend the rest of their lives with seems to be a feat too big to ask any poor gentleman. So we have concluded a single ladies trip at the age of 40 will have to be a solution to our lonely depression instead.
But it is not our single days which our preoccupying our minds, but the breathtaking beauty of the resort we are staying in. The sea is a turquoise so divine and calm it seems too precious to swim in and the sand is white and silky smooth under our feet. Our bungalow is to die for, and we have never in our lives been more appreciative or gushing about our situation. We cant help asking ourselves why we deserve to spend four nights free of charge in absolute paradise, with a gourmet breakfast included and cocktails and seafood to make your mouth water with the succulence and aromas. I cant seem to even erase the guilt I have at the back of my mind that each and everyone of you is not lying on a beach bed surrendering to the sun by my side.
The tan I must admit is coming on. I can safely say my london doctor can be fired on the terms he warned me I might turn a yellow-ish colour or fully be sunproof as a result of my malaria tablets, as I am gradually (being the key word) adopting a st tropez tan.
Not only has this given me some inner confidence that I am no longer the stumpy hobbit I described in earlier atrocious photographs. But my bikinis even fit. Not just one but ALL four snazzy, flamboyant bikinis are holding up. I say this in utter disbelief, as my sheer determination to be the Delia festive goddess over the Christmas period meant my skinny jeans werent quite as slimlined as they were meant to be by New Year. Papa is 99% to blame for hiring me to take on Heston Blumentals potatoes and endless varities of chestnut and cranberry stuffings as perfecting these lead to excessive tastings and subsequent weight gain. But boy were they worth it.
Anyway, enough about my waistline and more about our paradise. It is currently 4.30 in the afternoon and I am about to scurry back over to my little pea currently lying in a hammock recovering from the intense bathing we endured this morning. In a few hours we may even treat ourselves to a smoothie before dining with a crisp glass of wine infront of the sunset.
I stress, there is no need to feel jealous.
Anna Craven Smith Milne who has made this all happen needs to be made a Saint and we are both indebted to her for her kindness in trusting us backpacking youths to stay in her heavenly resort. She is an utter goddess.
We love you all to pieces and you are on our minds every minute of the day. I am the happiest bean alive.
Love you all to eternity and earlier this morning I wrote an adoring message in the sand with my little toes to prove it.
Big tight suffocating squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze of a hug,
Your Buglet
x x x
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