Another murky day. The landscape dry as it is is subtle as an English one - delicate monochrome shades: the grey half-built buildings that litter the landscape and never seem to progress fit better than usual. Yesterday I saw one side of an otherwise decorous white building as decreed by law has decided otherwise and has brown bits and yellowish walls, impression Swiss chalet landed up in somewhere like Bournemouth. I kind of cheer and groan, both.

The Dolores festival - celebrating our lady of sorrows who in 18?36 prevented the lava from the erupting volcanoes spreading over this part of the country - or so it's believed - is already sprouting barriers and no entry signs, covering all our little shortcuts. The hunters are out. Thursdays and Sundays our orange cat, Maurice, has to be shut inside; their rangy brown dogs kill cats yet cannot be kept off our land. Outrage. Though we can use our dogs to bark and drive the rabbits away. We do.

We didn't see the hunters this morning. Last night after minor argy-bargy relating to granny's disreputable past, and Beloved's (unnecessary) fear that she won't know what's good for her and be up and off in a year or two (at HER AGE??) neither of us could sleep; Beloved retired elsewhere, Granny after vainly tossing and turning finished the last eighty pages of the Israeli book - about the suicide of the writer's mother - which left her spooked and sad. Beloved also tossed in vain. After breakfast he and granny retired to bed to try again - successfully - they got 4 hours or so. On the strength of which they decided it was a holiday and went to the usual beach beyond Playa Blanca - full of people on real holidays, displaying their bulges to the world. Beach alas has sprouted a jetty full of pedaloes etc, and a man with a parasol ready to take orders. In vain today, so maybe it will all go away again soon. We hope so.

Afterwards, still in holiday mood we had gambas al ajillo and salad and beer at a cafe alongside.

The terns are back from their breeding places. Yesterday there was whimbrel on the salt marsh ditto. Alas, the flies are back too and Granny is covered in bites from something or other. Despite grey it is muggy even up here. Heigh ho.

Oh. And the paper aeroplane dangling from phone wires en route to the sports centre seems to have met its end at last. Heigh ho again. Granny p