Whilst the icy clouds obscured the frosted stars in the winter night sky, It was solitude within a family holiday that I remember from that first  night. Trundling along the promenade beside the wispy sails of boats and fishing trawlers bobbing gently upon the fluttering waves of the steaming sea of the port of Mahon in Menorca.  The street lamps were like crystals in rocks reflecting off the many restaurant windows. The restaurant shutters were squeezing  us to the sides of the curb. Everything was closed , there was no need for refuge from the  sun or  chance to refresh from the loss of shallow sweat. The tarpaulin canopies were rolled up tightly like stubbed out cigarettes butts, flickering their ash against the air, as far we could make out with our unshaded eyes, during that time of year. There were no notice boards displaying their caligraphic bubbles, tempting us with  Sangria or cold beer.  Chairs were stacked high, and had now decided to turn their backs on us. There were no parasols mounted in the plastic tables, instead the tables were like lids, exposed by  cold spies, about to go  underground.





It seemed that the island was merely the bedrock for sleeping agents, lucidly living their summer dreams, counting the costs.  They were most probably bunked up like gigantic mega-golithic monuments, eerie  and silent, in the pre- dawn , waiting for the dawn chorus, before the hoards of visitors.





Of course, we had insider information, just a smattering of the language, but the sounds of our covert voices charged the static in the atmosphere, as if we were only permitted intermittent speech through walkie talkies.





Would we be able to find our messenger, go between , or our undercover contact?


Would he or she be familiar with our ways? Would he or she detect the hint of the Winter get away blues, or our shock at a disappearing sun, in our grumpy mood.





I heard the echo of dogs barking , a wild cat snarled, clattering against a dustbin, down the dense alleyway in which we had  ventured. There were stone steps zig- zagging  like a row of mountainous trees with their winter leaves thawing from the friction caused by our stiff leather soles.  The wild cats eyes glinted of the dense windows from  buildings , on and off. like some sort of  morse code. My paranoia was increasing.





Suddenly, like a  chain reaction, or the debris from some excavating machine, a tunnel appeared, almost out of nowhere. Was it a flash light that I saw darting from up into the sky line and then down to street level?  There was a brief  glint of the passer by ghost in the glasses of his stare. He dropped his cigarette on to the ground, stubbing out the glowing ember with his heel. He pulled up the shutters fully from the entrance to his tunnel. He pulled out the gothic notice board.


´´You come to eat?´´ he said.


We nodded in reply.


´´Come, follow me!´´ he said.





He lead us down a spiral stair case, lit up by waxy lanterns that magnified the roja vino in the tall wine racks. Our body forms were constantly re- configuring, as if we in a room of distorting mirrors.





He gestured to a round table that was situated opposite a very thin walkway bar. We were alone now, except for our contact.





We sat down slowly, resting our palms on the table. He lit a candle that was placed in the centre of the table.


He laid out the menus as if they were maps and told us to take our time, for we will be most likely exposed later for who we really were.





He told us the food was good, that we like the food.


He headed towards the bar and returned as if the bottles and glasses were binoculars and a compass.


When his wife arrived with our hot plates, he stood beside her inspecting our faces. He told us that she would lead the way to the escape routes via the toilets.





The night was getting late and the temperature was falling just like our heavy heads.


When we had finished, his wife stood with us on the periphery of the hidden entrance. She pointed up towards a lighthouse that rotated its powerful beam in the winter fog.





We departed and began climbing the steep embankment , staying close together and hugging ourselves tightly.  Eventually at the end of  a winding road, our safe house appeared, elevated upon stilts. We shifted our feet in line with the tranquil glimmering sea tide. My father pulled the door key from his pocket and upon a smooth tiled surface, I felt the winter chill evaporate from my feet soothing my body, as the heating thermostat clicked in. Home sweet home, I thought. That night I fell asleep as soon as my head  hit the pillow. My dreams were all about floating on  particles of sand or drifting on the the waves of sea underneath the umbrellas of  sangria.