The times of sand are running out. Sitting here on the balcony, watching Richard ski-chute across the bay, it’s hard to believe we’ll be in Exeter tomorrow. Richard swears the first thing he’ll do is book next year’s holiday. It really has been an amazing success — heaven knows how they do it at the price, there’s talk of a Spanish government subsidy. In part it’s the unobtrusive but highly sophisticated organization — not a hint of Butlins, though it’s Britishrun and we’re all, curiously, from the West Country. Do you realize that Richard and I have been so busy we haven’t once bothered to visit Las Palmas? (Late news-flash: Mark Hastings, the Beach Counsellor, has just sent orchids to the room!) I’ll tell you all about him tomorrow. Diana.
Surprise! That computer again. Apparently there’s been some muddle at the Gatwick end, our aircraft won’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest. Richard is rather worried about not getting to the office today. We blew the last of our traveller’s cheques, but luckily the hotel have been marvellous, thanks largely to Mark. Not only will there be no surcharge, but the desk-clerk said they would happily advance us any cash we need. Hey-ho… A slight let-down, all the same. We walked along the beach this afternoon, together for the first time. I hadn’t realized how vast this resort complex actually is — it stretches for miles along the coast and half of it’s still being built. Everywhere people were coming in on the airport buses from Sheffield and Manchester and Birmingham, within half an hour they’re swimming and water-skiing, lounging around the hundreds of pools with their duty-free Camparis. Seeing them from the outside, as it were, it’s all rather strange. Diana.
Still here. The sky’s full of aircraft flying in from Gatwick and Heathrow, but none of them, apparently, is ours. Each morning we’ve waited in the lobby with our suitcases packed, but the airport bus never arrives. After an hour or so the desk-clerk rings through that there’s been a postponement and we trudge back to another day by the pool, drinks and water-skiing on the house. For the fist few days it was rather amusing, though Richard was angry and depressed. The company is a major Leyland supplier, and if the axe falls, middle-management is the first to feel it. But the hotel have given us unrestricted credit, and Mark says that as long as we don’t go over the top they’ll probably never bother to collect. Good news: the company have just cabled Richard telling him not to worry. Apparently hordes of people have been caught the same way. An immense relief — I wanted to phone you, but for days now all the lines have been blocked. Diana.
Three more weeks! Hysterical laughter in paradise… the English papers flown in here are full of it, no doubt you’ve heard that there’s going to be a government inquiry. Apparently, instead of flying people back from the Canaries the airlines have been sending their planes on to the Caribbean to pick up the American holiday traffic. So the poor British are stuck here indefinitely. There are literally hundreds of us in the same boat. The amazing thing is that one gets used to it. The hotel people are charm itself, they’ve pulled out all the stops, organizing extra entertainments of every kind. There’s a very political cabaret, and an underwater archaeology team are going to raise a Spanish caravel from the sea floor. To fill in the time I’m joining an amateur theatrical group, we’re thinking of putting on The Importance of Being Ernest. Richard takes it all with surprising calm. I wanted to post this from Las Palmas, but there are no buses running, and when we set out on foot Richard and I lost ourselves in a maze of building sites. Diana.
